UC-NRLF 


tl-e. 


GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 


G-IFTS  OF  GENIUS 


OP 


PROSE   AND  POETRY, 

BY 

AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


NEW  YORK: 
PRINTED    FOR    C.    A.    DAVENPORT, 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1859,  by 

G.     A.     DAVENPORT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


FACE 

INTRODUCTORY, ix 

OUT  AT  ELBOWS.— THE  STORY  OF  ST.  GEORGE  CLEAVE.    BY  JOHN 

ESTEN   COOKE, 18 

MY  SECRET.  (From  the  French.)  BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  42 
A  LEAF  FROM  MY  PARIS  NOTE-BOOK.  BY  H.  T.  TUCKERMAN,  .  44 
ON  POPULAR  KNOWLEDGE.  BY  GEORGE  S.  HILLARD,  ....  57 

ON  RECEIVING  A  PRIVATELY  PRINTED  VOLUME  OF  POEMS  FROM 

A  FRIEND.    BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ, 60 

THE  PRINCE  AT  LAND'S  END.  BY  CAROLINE  CHESEBBO,  ...  62 
SEA-WEED.  BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  .......  89  / 

TREFOIL.    BY  EVERT  A.  DUYCKINCK, 91 

MISERERE  DOMINE.    BY  WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH, 121 

THE   KINGDOMS  OF  NATURE  PRAISING   GOD.— A  SHORT   ESSAY 

ON  THE  148th  PSALM.    BY  C.  A.  BAHTOL, 124 

TRANSLATIONS.    BY  THE  REV.  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS,         ....  188 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  NEANDER,  THE  CHURCH  HISTORIAN.    BY  THE 

REV.  ROSWELL  D.  HITCHCOCK,  D.D 188 

POEMS.    BY  JULIA  WARD  HOWE, 160 

EARTH'S  WITNESS.    BY  ALICE  B.  HAVEN, 164 

THE    NEW    ENGLAND    THANKSGIVING.     BY  THE  REV.   HENRY  W. 

BELLOWS,  D.'D., 165 

SONG  OF  THE  ARCHANGELS.     (From  Goethe's  Faust.)    BY  GEOBGB! 

P.  MARSH, 171 

A  NIGHT  AND  DAY  AT  VALPARAISO.    Br  ROBERT  TOMBS,      .       .  178 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TRANSLATIONS.    BY  THE  REV.  THEODORE  PARKER, 181 

PAID  FOR  BY  THE  PAGE.  BY  EDWARD  8.  GOULD,  .  .  .  .186 
WORDS  FOR  MUSIC.  BY  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS, 191 

"  THE    CHRISTIAN    GREATNESS."     (Passages  from  a  Manuscript 
Sermon.)    BY  THE  REV.  ORVILLE  DEWEY,  D.D.,  ,  193 

THE  BABY  AND  THE  BOY  MUSICIAN.  BY  LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY,  19T 
THE  ERL-KING.  (From  the  German  of  Goethe.)  BY  MRS.  E.  F.  ELLET,  199 
THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON.  BY  THE  REV.  SAMUEL  OSGOOD,  D.D.,  .  202 

POEMS.    BY  MRS.  GEORGE  P.  MARSH, 214 

A  STORY  OF  VENICE.  BY  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS,  .  .  .  .217 
THE  TORTURE  CHAMBER.  BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER,  .  .  .289 
THE  HOME  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.  BY  FRANCIS  WILLIAMS,  .  .  244 
THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST.  BY  REV.  E.  A.  WASHBURN,  .  .  .250 

JUNE  TWENTY-NINTH,  EIGHTEEN  FIFTY-NINE.     BY  CAROLINE  M. 

KIRKLAND, 253 

J  NO^SONGS  IN  WINTER.    BY  T.  B.  ALDRICH, 259 

\/BENI-ISRAEL.    BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES, 260 

BOCAGE'S  PENITENTIAL  SONNET.    BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,      .    264 


TO   THE   PUBLIC. 


AT  the  desire  of  Miss  DAVENPOKT,  for  whose  benefit  this 
collection  of  original  Miscellanies  by  American  authors  has 
been  made,  I  write  this  brief  Preface,  without  having  had 
time  to  read  the  contributions  which  it  is  designed  to  intro- 
duce. The  names  of  the  writers,  however,  many  of  which 
are  among  the  most  distinguished  in  our  literature,  and  are 
honored  wherever  our  language  is  spoken,  will  suffice  to 
recommend  the  volume  to  the  attention  of  the  reading  world. 

If  this  were  not  enough,  an  inducement  of  another  kind 
is  to  be  found  in  the  circumstances  of  the  lady  in  whose 
behalf  the  contents  of  this  volume  have  been  so  freely  contri- 
buted. A  few  years  since,  she  was  a  teacher  in  our  schools, 
active,  useful,  and  esteemed  for  her  skillful  commnnication  of 
knowledge.  At  that  time  it  was  one  of  her  favorite  occupa- 
tions to  make  sketches  and  drawings  from  nature,  an  art  in 
which  she  instructed  her  pupils.  A  severe  illness  interrupted 
her  duties,  during  which  her  sight  became  impaired,  and 
finally  lost.  A  kind  of  twilight  came  over  it,  which  gradu- 
ally darkened  into  utter  night,  shutting  out  the  face  of  nature 
in.  which  she  had  so  much  delighted,  and  leaving  her,  without 

vii 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

occupation,  in  ill  health.    In  this  condition  she  has  already 
remained  for  five  years. 

To  this  statement  of  her  misfortunes,  which  I  trust  will 
commend  her  to  the  sympathies  of  all  who  are  made 
acquainted  with  them,  as  one  who  was  useful  to  society  while 
Providence  permitted,  I  have  only  to  add  the  expression 
of  her  warmest  thanks  to  those  who  have  generously  fur- 
nished the  contents  of  the  volume  she  now  lays  before  the 

public. 

W.  0.  BKYANT. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1869. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


THIS  volume  speaks  so  well  for  itself  that  it  does  not 
need  many  words  of  preface  to  commend  it  to  a  wide  circle 
of  readers.  Its  rich  and  varied  contents,  however,  become 
far  more  interesting  when  interpreted  by  the  motive  that 
won  them  from  their  authors  ;  and  when  the  kindly  feel- 
ing that  offered  them  so  freely  is  known,  these  gifts,  like 
the  pearls  of  a  rosary,  will  be  prized  not  only  severally  but 
collectively,  because  strung  together  by  a  sacred  thread. 

The  story  of  this  undertaking  is  a  very  short  and  simple 
one.  Miss  Davenport,  who  had  been  for  many  years  an 
active  and  successful  teacher  in  our  schools  and  families, 
especially  in  the  beautiful  arts  of  drawing  and  painting, 
was  prostrated  by  a  severe  illness,  which  impaired  her  sight 
and  finally  terminated  in  blindness. 

The  late  Benjamin  P.  Butler,  in  a  letter  dated  Octo- 
ber 13, 1858,  which  will  have  peculiar  interest  to  the  many 
readers  who  knew  and  honored  that  excellent  man,  writes 
thus : 

"Miss  Davenport  has  for. several  years  been  personally 
known  to  me.  She  is  now  blind  and  unable  to  follow  the 

lx 


X  INTKODTJCTOKY. 

calling  by  which,  before  this  calamity  befell  her,  she  obtained 
her  living.  Having  lost  her  parents  in  early  life,  and  hav- 
ing few  relatives,  and  none  able  to  assist  her,  she  is  depen- 
dent for  her  support  on  such  efforts  as  she  is  still  capable 
of  making.  These,  were  she  a  person  of  common  fortitude, 
energy  and  hopefulness,  would  be  very  small,  for  to  her  great 
privation  is  added  very  imperfect  general  health.  Yet  she 
has  struggled  on  in  the  hope  of  gaining  such  a  competency 
as  should  ultimately  secure  '  a  home  that  she  may  call  her 
own/  I  commend  Miss  Davenport  to  all  who  feel  for  the 
afflicted  and  who  wish  to  do  good." 

The  Rev.  Dr.  S.  Storrs  writes  :  "  Miss  Davenport  is  a 
Christian  woman,  of  great  excellence  of  character,  and  of 
many  accomplishments,  whom  God  in  his  providence  has 
made  totally  blind  within  a  few  years  past." 

We  need  add  but  two  remarks  to  these  statements — 
one  in  reference  to  the  volume  itself  and  the  other  in  refer- 
ence to  her  for  whose  welfare  it  is  contributed. 

The  volume  is  one  of  the  many  proofs  which  have  been 
gathering  for  years,  of  the  alliance  between  literature  and 
humanity.  Every  good  and  true  word  that  has  been  writ- 
ten from  the  beginning  has  been  a  minister  of  mercy  to 
every  human  heart  which  it  has  reached,  whilst  the  mercy 
has  been  twice  blessed  when  the  word  so  benign  in  its 
result  has  been  charitable  in  its  intention,  and  the  author  at 
once  yields  his  profits  to  a  friend's  need,  and  his  produc- 
tion to  the  public  eye.  Thackeray  has  written  well  upon 
humor  and  charity,  but  should  he  undertake  to  carry  out 


INTRODUCTORY.  XI 

his  idea  and  treat  of  literature  and  humanity  in  their  vital 
relations,  he  would  have  his  hands  and  heart  full  of  work 
for  more  than  a  lifetime.  Princes  who  give  their  gold  to 
generous  uses  are  worthy  of  honor  ;  but  there  is  a  coinage 
of  the  brain  that  costs  more  and  weighs  more  than  gold. 
The  authors  of  these  papers  would  of  course  be  little  dis- 
posed to  claim  any  high  merit  for  their  offerings,  yet  any 
reader  who  runs  his  eye  over  the  list  of  contributors  will 
see  at  once  that  they  are  generally  writers  whose  composi- 
tions are  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  public,  and  among  them 
are  some  names  whose  pens  can  com  gold  whenever  they 
choose  to  move.  All  these  articles  are  original,  and  nothing 
is  inserted  in  this  book  that  has  been  before  published. 
We  are  confident  that  it  deserves,  and  will  command  wide 
and  choice  circulation 

A  word  as  to  the  lady  for  whose  benefit  these  gifts  are 
brought  together.  The  preface  of  Mr.  Bryant  and  the 
letter  of  Mr.  Butler,  tell  her  story  with  sufficient  distinct- 
ness, and  the  readiness  with  which  our  men  and  women  of 
letters  have  so  generally  complied  with  her  request,  shows 
what  eloquence  she  bears  in  her  presence  and  statement. 
Some  certificates  from  her  pupils  in  drawing,  who  testify  to 
her  love  of  nature  and  her  delight  in  sketching  directly 
from  nature,  so  greatly  to  their  improvement  in  this  beauti- 
ful art,  give  peculiar  pathos  to  her  case.  The  organ  that 
was  the  source  of  her  highest  satisfaction  is  closed  up  by 
this  dark  sorrow,  and  the  gate  called  Beautiful,  to  this 
earthly  temple  no  longer  is  open  to  scenes  and  faces 


Xll  INTRODUCTORY. 

of  loveliness.  What  a  fearful  loss  is  this  loss  of  sight 
— on  the  whole  the  noblest  of  the  senses,  and  certainly  the 
sense  of  all  others  most  serviceable,  alike  to  the  working 
hand  and  the  creative  imagination.  The  eye  may  not  be 
so  near  the  fountains  of  sensibility  as  the  ear,  and  no 
impression  reaches  the  sympathy  so  profoundly  as  the 
pathos  of  living  speech,  but  the  eye  has  a  far  wider  range 
than  the  ear  and  fathoms  the  heavens  and  sweeps  the  earth 
and  sea,  whilst  the  ear  hears  distinctly  but  within  a  very 
narrow  limit,  hardly  a  stone's  throw.  When  the  eye,  then, 
loses  its  marvellous  faculty  and  sees  no  longer  the  light  of 
day  and  the  countenances  of  friends,  let  the  ear  do  what  it 
can  to  make  up  for  the  loss  by  every  cheering  word  of  sym- 
pathy and  hope.  In  God's  Providence  there  is  a  principle 
of  compensation  that  aims  to  balance  every  privation  by 
some  new  privilege,  as  for  instance  by  giving  new  acuteness 
to  the  senses  which  are  called  to  do  the  work  of  the  senses 
lost.  But  genial  humanity  is  the  great  principle  of  compen- 
sation, and  by  this  God's  children  glorify  the  Father  in 
Heaven.  May  this  volume  serve  his  merciful  will,  and  may 
the  light  shed  from  the  stars  of  our  literary  firmament  do 
something  to  lessen  the  night  upon  every  dark  path. 

s.  o. 


GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 


OUT  AT  ELBOWS. 

THE    STORY    OF    ST.    GEORGE    CLEAVE. 

BY   JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE,    OF   VIRGINIA. 


^  How  good  a  thing  it  is  to  live !  The  morn  is  full 
of  music  ;  and  Annie  is  singing  in  the  hall ! 

The  sun  falls  with  a  tranquil  glory  on  the  fields 
and  forests,  burning  with  the  golden  splendors  of 
the  autumn — the  variegated  leaves  of  the  mighty 
oaks  are  draped  about  the  ancient  gables,  like  a 
trophy  of  banners.  The  landscape  sleeps ;  all  the 
world  smiles — shall  not  I? 

I  sat  up  late  last  night  at  my  accounts  ;  to-day  I 
will  take  a  holiday.  The  squire  has  bidden  me 
good  morning  in  his  courteous,  good-humored  way, 
and  gone  in  his  carriage  to  attend  a  meeting  of  his 
brother  magistrates : — I  am  away  for  the  time 

13 


14:  GIFTS    OF   GENItfS. 

from  my  noisy  courts — the  domain  is  mine — all 
the  world  is  still ! 

No  ; — Annie  is  singing  in  the  hall. 

She  sings  to  herself,  I  think,  this  autumn  morn- 
ing, and  would  not  like  to  be  interrupted.  I  will 
therefore  take  a  ramble — and  you  shall  accompany 
me,  O  friend  of  my  youth,  far  away  in  distant 
lands,  but  beside  me  still !  Whither  shall  we  go  ? 
It  is  hard  to  decide,  for  all  the  world  is  lovely. 
Shall  we  go  to  my  favorite  woodland  ?  It  skirts  the 
river,  and  I  love  the  river;  so  we  pass  into  the 
forest. 

How  regal  is  the  time  of  the  fall  of  the  leaves ! 
A  thousand  brilliant  colors  charm  the  eyes — the 
eyes  of  their  faithful  lovers.  How  the  mighty  oaks 
reach  out  their  knotty,  muscular  arms  to  welcome 
us  ! — how  their  ponderous  shoulders  bear  aloft  the 
imperial  trappings — trappings  of  silk  and  velvet, 
all  orange,  blue,  and  purple  !  The  haughty  pines 
stand  up  like  warriors — or  call  them  spears  of 
nordland  heroes,  holding  on  their  summits  emerald 
banners !  The  tulip-trees  are  lovely  queens  with 
flowers  in  their  hair,  who  bend  and  welcome  you 
with  gracious  murmurs  ;  the  slender  elms  sway  to 
and  fro,  like  fairest  maidens  of  the  royal  blood ;  and 
sigh,  and  smile,  and  whisper,  full  of  the  charming 
grace  of  youth,  and  tenderness,  and  beauty. 


OUT  AT  ELBOWS.  15 

I  salute  my  noblemen,  and  queens,  and  prin- 
cesses ;  they  bow  in  return  to  me,  their  king.  Let 
us  wander  on. 

Ah  !  that  is  well ;  my  nver  view !  Of  all 

my  broad  domain,  I  think  I  like  this  part  the  best. 
Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  That  clump  of  dogwood,  how- 
ever, obstructs  the  view  somewhat ;  I  must  cut  it 
down.  Let  us  move  a  little  to  the  right.  Ah! 
there  it  is !  See  my  lovely  river  ;  surely  you  must 
admire  my  swan-like  ships,  flying,  with  snowy  can- 
vass spread,  before  the  fresh  breeze.  And  see  that 
schooner  breaking  the  little  waves  into  foam.  Is 
that  a  telescope  which  the  captain,  of  my  vessel 
points  toward  us?  lie  salutes  me,  does  he  not? 
But  I  fear  the  distance  is  too  great;  he  could 
hardly  recognize  me.  Still  I  shall  bow — let  us  not 
neglect  the  laws  of  courtesy. 

My  ship  is  sailing  onward.  In  earlier  days  I 
had  many  barks  which  sailed  from  shore ;  they 
were  freighted  with  the  richest  goods,  and  made 
me  very  anxious.  So  my  argosies  went  sailing,  but 
they  never  came  again.  One  bore  my  poem,  which 
I  thought  would  make  me  very  celebrated,  but  the 
ship  was  lost.  Another  was  to  bring  me  back  a 
cargo  of  such  beautiful  things — things  which  make 
life  delightful  to  so  many ! — pearls,  and  silks,  and 
wines,  and  gold-laced  suits — garters,  rosettes,  and 


16  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

slips  of  ribbon  to  be  worn  at  the  button-hole. 
This,  too,  was  lost,  and  yet  it  did  not  grieve  me 
much.  The  third  caused  me  more  regret ;  I  do, not 
think  I  have  yet  wholly  recovered  from  its  loss. 
It  bore  a  maiden  with  sunny  hair,  and  the  ten- 
derest,  sweetest  eyes !  She  said  she  loved  me — yes 
a  thousand  times!  and  I — I  loved  her  long  and 
dearly.  But  the  ship  in  which  she  sailed  went 
down — the  strong,  good  ship,  as  I  regarded  it. 
She  died  thus, — did  she  not  ? — or  is  it  true  that  she 
was  married  to  a  richer  suitor  far  away  from  me  in 

foreign  lands? These  are  foolish  tears — let 

me  not  think  of  her  with  want  of  charity  ;  she  was 
only  a  woman,  and  we  men  are  often  very  weak. 
ONE  over  all,  is  alone  great  and  good.  So,  beau- 
tiful ship! — I  say — that  sailed  across  my  path  in 
youth,  sail  on  in  peace  and  happiness !  A  lonely 
bark,  lonely  but  not  unhappy,  sees  you,  on  the  dis- 
tant, happy  seas,  and  the  pennon  floats  from  the 
peak  in  amicable  greeting  and  salute.  Hail  and 
farewell !  Heaven  send  the  ship  a  happy  voyage, 
and  a  welcome  home ! 

This  little  soliloquy  perhaps  wearies  you;  it  is 
ended.  Let  us  sail  for  an  hour  or  so  on  the  silver 
wave;  my  new  pleasure-boat  is  rocking  here  be- 
ncatli  in  the  shadow  of  the  oak.  She  is  built  for 
speed.  See  how  gracefully  she  falls  and  rises,  like 


OUT  AT  ELBOWS.  17 

a  variegated  leaf  upon  the  waves — how  the  slender 
prow  curves  upward — how  the  gaily-colored  sides 
are  mirrored  in  the  limpid  surface  of  the  joyous 
stream !  Come,  let  us  step  into  the  little  craft,  and 
unfurl  the  snowy  sail  ....  How  provoking!  I 
have  left  my  boat  key  at  the  hall ;  another  day  we 
will  sail.  Let  us  stroll  back  to  the  good  old  house 
again. 

Are  not  my  fields  pleasant  to  behold  ?  They  are 
bringing  in  my  wheat,  which  stretches,  you  per- 
ceive, throughout  the  low-grounds  there,  in  neatly 
arranged  shocks.  My  crops  this  year  are  excellent 
~my  servants  enjoy  this  season,  and  its  occupations. 
They  will  soon  sing  their  echoing  "  harvest  home  " 
— and  over  them  at  their  joyous  labor  will  shine  the 
"  harvest-moon,"  lighting  up  field  and  forest,  hill 
and  dale — the  whole  "  broad  domain  and  the  hall." 
The  affection  of  my  servants  is  grateful  to  me. 
"^ere  comes  Cato,  with  his  team  of  patient  oxen, 
and  there  goes  Caesar,  leading  my  favorite  race- 
horse down  to  water.  Cato,  Caesar,  and  I,  respec- 
tively salute  each  other  in  the  kindest  way.  I 
think  they  are  attached  to  me.  Faithful  fellows  f 
I  shall  never  part  with  them.  I  think  I  will  give 
this  coat  to  Caesar ;  but,  looking  again,  I  perceive 
that  his  own  is  better.  Besides,  I  must  not  be 
extravagant.  The  little  money  I  make  is  required 


18  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

by  another,  and  it  would  not  be  generous  to  buy  a 
new  coat  for  myself.  This  one  which  I  wear  will 
do  well  enough,  will  it  not  ?  I  ask  you.  with  some 
diffidence,  for  'tis  sadly  out  at  elbows,  and  the  idea 
has  occurred  to  me  that  the  coolness  and  neglect 
of  certain  visitors  to  the  hall,  has  been  caused  by 

my  coat  being  shabby.  Even  Annie  ,  but 

I'll  not  speak  of  that  this  morning.  'Twas  the 
hasty  word  which  we  all  utter  at  times — 'tis  for- 
gotten. Still,  I  think,  I  will  give  you  the  incident 
some  day,  when  we  ramble,  as  now,  in  the  fields. 

From  the  fields  we  approach  the  honest  old  man- 
sion, across  the  emerald-carpeted  lawn.  The  birds' 
"are  singing,  around  the  sleepy-looking  gables,  and 
the  toothless  old  hound  comes  wagging  his  tail,  in 
sign  of  welcome. 

'Tis  plain  that  Milo  has  an  honest  heart.  I  think 
he's  smiling. 

n. 

My  ancestors  were  gentlemen  of  considerable 
taste.  I  am  glad  they  built  me  that  wing  for  my 
books;  my  numerous  children  cannot  disturb  me 
when  I  am  composing,  either  my  speech  to  be  de- 
livered in  the  Senate,  or  my  work  which  is  destined 
to  refute  Sir  "William  Hamilton. 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  19 

Let  us  stroll  in.  A  strain  of  tender  music  comes 
from  the  sitting-room,  and  I  recognize  the  exquisite 
air  of  "  Katharine  Ogie  "  which  Annie  is  singing. 
Let  us  look,  nevertheless,  at  the  pictures  as  we 
pass. 

What  a  stately  head  my  old  grandfather  had  ! 
He  was  president  of  the  King's  Council,  a  hundred 
years  ago — a  man  of  decided  mark.  He  wears  a 
long  peruke  descending  in  curls  upon  his  shoulders 
— a  gold-laced  waistcoat — and  snowy  ruffles.  His 
white  hand  is  nearly  covered  with  lace,  and  rests 
on  a  scroll  of  parchment.  It  looks  like  a  Vandyke. 
He  must  have  been  a  resolute  old  gentleman. 
How  serene  and  calm  is  his  look ! — how  firm  are 
the  finely  chiselled  lips  !  How  proud  and  full  of 
collected  intelligence  the  erect  head,  and  the  broad 
white  brow  !  He  was  a  famous  < c  macaroni,"  as 
they  called  it,  in  his  youth — and  cultivated  an 
enormous  crop  of  wild  oats.  But  this  all  disap- 
peared, and  he  became  one  of  the  sturdiest  patriots 
of  the  Revolution,  and  fought  clear  through  the 
contest.  Is  it  wrong  to  feel  satisfaction  at  being 
descended  from  a  worthy  race  of  men — from  a 
family  of  brave,  truthful  gentlemen  ?  I  think  not. 
I  trust  I'm  no  absurd  aristocrat — but  I  would 
rather  be  the  grandson  of  a  faithful  common  soldier 
than  of  General  Benedict  Arnold,  the  traitor.  I 


GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 


would  rather  trace  my  lineage  to  the  Chevalier 
Bayard,  simple  knight  though  he  was,  than  to 
France's  great  Constable  de  Bourbon,  the  rene- 
gade. 

So  I  am  glad  my  stout  grandfather  was  a  brave 
and  truthful  gentleman — that  grandma  yonder,  smil- 
ing opposite,  was  worthy  to  be  his  wife.  I  do  not 
remember  her,  but  she  must  have  been  a  beauty. 
Her  head  is  bent  over  one  shoulder,  and  she  has  an 
exquisitely  coquettish  air.  Her  .eyes  are  blue — her 
arms  round,  and  as  white  as  snow — and  what  lips ! 
They  are  like  carnations,  and  pout  with  a  pretty 
smiling  air,  which  must  have  made  her  dangerous. 
She  rejected  many  wealthy  offers  to  marry  grandpa, 
,who  was  then  poor.  As  I  gaze,  it  seems  scarcely 
courteous  to  remain  thus  covered  in  presence  of  a 
lady  so  lovely.  I  take  off  my  hat,  and  make  my 
best  bow,  saluting  my  little  grandmamma  of  "  sweet 
seventeen,"  who  smiles  and  seems  graciously  to  bow 
in  return. 

All  around  me  I  see  my  family.  There  is  my 
uncle,  the  captain  in  Colonel  Washington's  troop. 
I  do  not  now  mean  the  Colonel  Washington  of  the 
French  wars,  who  afterward  became  General 
Washington  of  the  American  Hevolution — though 
my  uncle,  the  captain,  know  him  very  well,  I  am 
told,  and  often  visited  him  at  Mount  Vernon,  the 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  21 

colonel's  estate,  where  they  hunted  foxes  together, 
along  the  Potomac.  I  mean  the  brave  Colonel 
Washington  who  fought  so  nobly  in  North  Caro- 
lina. My  uncle  died  there.  His  company  was 
much  thinned  at  every  step  by  the  horrible  hail- 
storm of  balls.  He  was  riding  in  front  with  his 
drawn  sword,  shouting  as  the  column  fell,  man  by 
man,  "  Steady,  boys,  steady ! — close  up  !" — when 
a  ball  struck  him.  His  last  words  were  "  A  good 
death,  boys !  a  good  death  !  Close  up !"  So,  you 
see,  he  ended  nobly. 

Beside  my  uncle  and  the  rest  of  his  kith  and 
kin  of  the  wars,  you  see,  yonder,  a  row  of  beauties, 
all  smiling  and  gay,  or  pensive  and  tender — inter- 
spersed with  bright-faced  children,  blooming  like 
so  many  flowers  along  the  old  wralls  of 'the  hall. 
How  they  please  and  interest  me !  True,  there  are 
other  portraits  in  our  little  house  at  home — not  my 
hall  here — which,  perhaps,  I  should  love  with  a 
warmer  regard ;  but  let  me  not  cramp  my  sym- 
pathies, or  indulge  any  early  preferences.  I  must 
not  be  partial.  So  I  admire  these  here  before  me — 
and  bow  to  them,  one  and  all.  I  fancy  that  they 
bow  in  return — that  the  stalwart  warriors  stretch 
vigorous  hands  toward  me — that  the  delicate  beau- 
ties bend  down  their  little  heads,  all  covered  with 
powder,  and  return  my  homage  with  a  smile. 


22  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Why  not?  Can  my  shabby  coat  make  the 
lovely  or  proud  faces  ashamed  of  me  ?  Do  they  turn 
from  me  coldly  because  I'm  the  last  of  a  ruined 
line  ?  Do  they  sneer  at  my  napless  hat,  and  laugh 
at  my  tattered  elbows  ?  I  do  not  think  of  them  so 
poorly  and  unkindly.  My  coat  is  very  shabby,  but 
I  think,  at  least  I  hope,  that  it  covers  an  honest 
heart. 

So  I  bow  to  the  noble  and  beautiful  faces,  and 
again  they  smile  in  return.  I  seem  to  have  wan- 
dered away  into  the  past  and  dreamed  in  a  realm 
of  silence.  And  yet — it  is  strange  I  did  not  hear 
her — Annie  is  still  singing  through  the  hall. 

in. 

I  promised  to  tell  you  of  the  incident  of  the  coat, 
the  unfortunate  coat  which  I  sometimes  think 
makes  the  rich  folks  visiting  the  hall  look  side  wise 
at  me.  It  is  strange !  Ami  not  myself,  whether 
clad  in  velvet  or  in  fustian — in  homespun  fabric,  or 
in  cloth  of  gold  ?  People  say  I  am  simple — wholly 
ignorant  of  the  world  ;  I  must  be  so  in  truth. 

But  about  the  coat.  I  hinted  that  Annie  even 
saw,  and  alluded  to  it ;  it  was  not  long  after  my 
arrival  at  the  hall,  and  a  young  lady  from  the 
neighborhood  was  paying  a  visit  to  Annie. 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  23 

They  were  standing  on  the  portico,  and  I  was 
leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  old  oak  beneath, 
admiring  the  sunset  which  was  magnificent  that 
evening.  All  at  once  I  heard  whispers,  and  turn- 
ing round  toward  the  young  ladies,  saw  them 
laughing.  Annie's  finger  was  extended  toward  the 
hole  in  my  elbow,  and  I  could  not  fail  to  under- 
stand that  she  was  laughing  at  my  miserable  coat. 

I  was  not  offended,  though  perhaps  I  may  have 
been  slightly  wrounded ;  but  Annie  was  a  young 
girl  and  I  could  not  get  angry ;  I  was  not  at  all 
ashamed — why  should  I  have  been  ? 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  help  the  hole  in  my 
elbow,"  I  said,  calmly  and  quietly,  with  a  bow  and 
a  smile ;  "  I  tore  it  by  accident,  yesterday." 

Annie  blushed,  and  looked  very  proud  and 
offended,  and  it  pained  me  to  see  that  she  suffered 
for  her  harmless  and  careless  speech.  I  begged 
her  not  to  think  that  my  feelings  were  wounded, 
and  bowing  again,  went  up  to  my  room.  I  looked 
at  my  coat,  it  was  terribly  shabby,  and  I  revolved 
the  propriety  of  purchasing  another,  but  I  gave  up 
the  idea  with  a  sigh.  She  needs  all  my  money,  and 
my  mind  is  made  up ;  she  shall  have  the  black  silk, 
and  very  soon. 

I  very  nearly  forgot  to  relate  what  followed  the 
little  scene  on  the  portico.  During  all  that  even- 


24:  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

ing,  and  the  whole  of  the  next  day,  Annie  scarcely 
looked  at  me,  and  retained  her  angry  and  offended 
expression.  I  was  pained,  but  could  add  nothing 
more  to  my  former  assurance  that  I  was  not 
offended. 

Toward  evening,  I  was  sitting  with  a  book  upon 
the  portico,  when  Annie  came  out  of  the  parlor. 
She  paused  on  the  threshold,  evidently  hesitated, 
but  seemed  to  resolve  all  at  once,  what  to  do.  She 
came  quickly  to  my  side,  and  holding  out  her  hand 
said  frankly  and  kindly,  with  a  little  tremor  in  her 
voice,  and  a  faint  rose-tint  in  the  delicate  cheeks : 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Mr. 
Cleave,  indeed  I  did  not,  sir ;  my  speech  was  the 
thoughtless  rudeness  of  a  child.  I  am  sorry,  very 
sorry  that  I  was  ever  so  ill-bred  and  unkind ;  will 
you  pardon  me,  sir  ?" 

I  rose  from  my  seat,  and  bowed  low  above  the 
white  little  hand  which  lay  in  my  own,  slightly 
agitated, — 

"  I  have  nothing  to  pardon,  Miss  Annie,"  I  said, 
"  if  you  will  let  me  call  you  by  your  household 
name.  I  think  it  very  fortunate  that  my  coat  was 
shabby ;  had  it  been  a  new  one,  you  would  never 
have  observed  it,  and  I  should  have  lost  these 
sweet  and  friendly  accents." 

And  that  is  the  "  incident  of  the  coat." 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  25 


IY. 


The  week  that  has  just  passed  has  been  a 
pleasant  one.  I  have  thought,  a  hundred  times, 
"  how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  live  !" 

I  must  have  been  a  good  deal  cramped  and 
confined  in  the  city ;  but  I  enjoy  the  fair  landscapes 
here  all  the  more.  The  family  are  very  friendly 
and  kind — except  Mrs.  Harrington,  who  does  not 
seem  to  like  me.  She  scarcely  treats  me  with  any- 
thing more  than  scrupulous  courtesy.  The  squire 
and  Annie,  however,  make  up  for  this  coldness. 
They  are  both  extremely  cordial.  It  was  friendly 
in  the  squire  to  give  me  this  mass  of  executorial 
accounts  to  arrange.  So  far  it  has  been  done  to  his 
entire  satisfaction ;  and  the  payment  for  my  ser- 
vices is  very  liberal.  How  I  long  for  money ! 

There  was  a  spendid  party  at  the  hall  on  Tues- 
day. It  reminded  me  of  old  times,  when  we, 

too, but  that  is  idle  to  remember.  I  do  not 

sigh  for  the  past.  I  know  all  is  for  the  best.  Still, 
I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  looked  on  the  bril- 
liant spectacle,  that  the  world  was  full  of  changes 
and  vicissitudes.  Well,  the  party  was  a  gay  and 
delightful  one  ;  the  dancing  quite  extravagant. 
Annie  was  the  "beauty  of  the  assemblage  the  belle 
2 


26  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

of  the  ball — and  she  gave  me  a  new  proof  of  the 
regret  which  she  felt  for  the  speech  about  my  coat. 
At  the  end  of  a  cotillon  she  refused  the  arms  of 
half  a  dozen  eager  gallants  to  take  mine,  and 
promenade  out  on  the  portico. 

"Do  you  ever  dance?"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  replied;  "that  is,  I  did  dance  once; 
but  of  late  years  I  have  been  too  much  occupied. 
We  live  quietly." 

"  You  say  '  we.'  " 

"  I  mean  my  mother  and  I ;  I  should  have  said 
'  poorly,'  perhaps,  instead  of  '  quietly.'  And  I  am 
busy." 

She  bowed  her  head  kindly,  and  said,  smiling : 

u  But  you  are  not  busy  to-night ;  and  if  you'll 
not  think  me  forward,  I  will  reverse  the  etiquette, 
and  ask  you  to  dance  with  me." 

"  Indeed  I  will  do  so  with  very  great  pleasure." 

"  Are  you  sure?" 

"  Could  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"  I  was  so  very  rude  to  you  !" 

And  she  hung  her  head.  That,  then,  was  the 
secret  of  her  choice  of  my  arm.  I  could  only 
assure  her  that  I  did  not  think  her  rude,  and  I 
hoped  she  would  forget  the  whole  incident.  I  was 
pleased  in  spite  of  all — for  I  like  to  think  well  of 
women.  The  cynical  writers  say  they  are  all 


OCT   AT   ELBOWS.  27 

mean,  and  mercenary,  and  cowardly.  Was  Annie  ? 
She  had  left  many  finely-dressed  gentlemen,  fault- 
lessly appointed,  to  dance  with  a  poor  stranger, 
quite  out  at  elbows. 

I  saw  many  cold  looks  directed  at  myself;  and 
when  Annie  took  my  arm  to  go  into  supper,  the 
gloom  in  the  faces  of  some  gentlemen  who  had  been 
refused,  made  me  smile.  When  the  party  was 
over,  Annie  gave  me  her  hand  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  I  saw  a  triumphant  light  in  her  mis- 
chievous eyes,  as  she  glanced  at  the  departing 
gallants ;  her  rosy  cheeks  dimpled,  and  she  flitted 
up,  humming  a  gay  tune. 

It  is  singular  how  beautiful  she  is  when  she 
laughs — as  when  she  sighs.  Am  I  falling  in  love 
with  her?  I  shall  be  guilty  of  no  such  folly.  I 
think  that  my  pride  and  self-respect  will  keep  me 
rational.  Pshaw  !  why  did  I  dream  of  such 
nonsense ! 


V. 


So — a  month  has  passed. 

My  coat,  it  seems,  is  to  be  the  constant  topic  of 
attention. 

A  day  or  two  since,  I  was  sitting  in  my  chamber, 


28  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

reflecting  upon  a  variety  of  things.  My  thoughts, 
at  last,  centred  on  the  deficiencies  of  my  ward- 
robe, and  I  muttered,  "  I  must  certainly  have  my 
coat  mended  soon ;"  and  I  looked  down,  sighing,  at 

the  .hole  -in  my  elbow It 

had  disappeared !  There  was  no  longer  any  rent. 
The  torn  cloth  had  been  mended  in  the  neatest 
manner;  so  neatly,  indeed,  that  the  orifice  was 
almost  invisible.  Who  could  have  done  it,  and 

how  ?  I  have  one  coat  only,  and yes !  it  must 

have  been  !  I  saw,  in  a  moment,  the  whole  secret : 
that  noise,  and  the  voice  of  Sarah,  the  old  chamber- 
maid. 

I  rose  and  went  out  on  the  staircase ;  I  met  the 
good  crone. 

"How  did  you  find  my  coat  in  the  dark?"  I  said, 
smiling ;  "  and  now  you  must  let  me  make  you  a 
present  for  mending  it,  Sarah." 

Sarah  hesitated,  plainly ;  but  honesty  conquered. 
She  refused  the  money,  which,  nevertheless,  I  gave 
her ;  and,  from  her  careless  replies,  I  soon  disco- 
vered the  real  truth. 

The  coat  had  been  mended  by  Annie  ! 

I  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  and  finding  her 
alone,  thanked  her  with  simplicity  and  sincerity. 
She  blushed  and  pouted. 

"Who  told  you?"  she  asked. 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  29 

"  No  one ;  but  I  discovered  it  from  Sarali ;  she 
was  unguarded." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Annie,  blushing  still,  but  laugh- 
ing, "  there  is  no  reason  for  your  being  so  grateful. 
I  thought  I  would  mend  it,  as  I  formerly  laughed 
at  it — and  I  hope  it  is  neatly  done." 

"  It  is  scarcely  visible,"  I  said,  with  a  smile  and 
a  bow ;  "  I  shall  keep  this  coat  always  to  remind 
me  of  your  delicate  kindness." 

"  Pshaw !  'twas  nothing." 

And  running  to  the  piano,  the  young  girl  com- 
menced a  merry  song,  which  rang  through  the  old 
hall  like  the  carol  of  a  bird.  Her  voice  was  so 
inexpressibly  sweet  that  it  made  my  pulses  throb  and 
and  my  heart  ache.  I  did  not  know  the  expression 
of  my  countenance,  as  I  looked  at  her,  until  turning 
toward  me,  I  saw  her  suddenly  color  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair. 

I  felt,  all  at  once,  that  I  had  fixed  upon  her  one  of 
those  looks  which  say  as  plainly  as  words  could 
utter :  "  I  love  you  with  all  the  powers  of  my 
nature,  all  the  faculties  of  my  being — you  are  dearer 
to  me  than  the  whole  wide  world  beside  !" 

Upon  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,  I  did 
not  know  that  I  loved  Annie — I  was  not  conscious 
that  I  was  gazing  at  her  with  that  look  of  inexpres- 
sible tenderness.  Her  sudden  blush  cleared  up 


30  GIFTS    OF   GENID8. 

everything  like  a  flash  of  lightning — I  rose,  set  my 
lips  together,  and  bowed;  I  could  scarcely  speak — 
I  muttered  "  pray  excuse  me,"  and  left  the  apart- 
ment. 

On  the  next  morning  I  begged  the  squire  to 
release  me  from  the  completion  of  my  task — I  had  a 
friend  who  could  perform  the  duties  as  well  as 
myself,  arid  who  would  come  to  the  hall  for  that 
purpose,  inasmuch  as  the  account  books  could  not 
be  removed — I  must  go. 

The  formal  and  ceremonious  old  gentleman  did 
not  ask  my  reasons  for  this  sudden  act — he  simply 
inclined  his  head — and  said  that  he  would  always 
be  glad  to  serve  me.  "With  a  momentary  pressure 
of  Annie's  cold  hand,  and  a  low  bow  to  the  frigid 
Mrs.  Barrington,  I  departed. 


VI. 


Five  years  have  passed  away.  They  have  been 
eventful  ones  to  me — not  for  the  unhoped  for  suc- 
cess which  I  have  had  in  my  profession,  so  much  as 
for  the  long  suffering  which  drove  me,  violently  as 
it  were,  to  seek  relief  in  unceasing  toil. 

The  thought  of  Annie  has  been  ever  with  me — 
my  pain,  though  such  a  term  is  slight,  was  caused 
by  my  leaving  her.  I  never  knew  how  much  I 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  31 

loved  her  until  all  those  weary  miles  were  thrown 
between  us.  My  days  have  been  most  unhappy, 
my  nights  drearier  still ;  for  a  long  time  now,  I  have 
not  thought  or  said  "  how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  live !" 

But  I  acted  wisely,  and  honorably ;  did  I  not  ?  I 
did  my  duty,  when  the  temptation  to  neglect  it 
was  exceeding  hard  to  resist.  I  went  away  from 
the  woman  whom  I  loved,  because  I  loved  her,  and 
respected  my  own  name  and  honor,  too  much  to 
remain.  It  was  better  to  break  my  heart,  I  said, 
than  take  advantage  of  my  position  at  the  hall,  to 
engage  a  young  girl's  heart,  and  drag  her  down,  in 
case  she  loved  me,  to  the  poor  low  sphere  in  which 
I  moved.  If  her  father  had  said  to  me,  "You  have 
abused  the  trust  I  placed  in  you,  and  acted  with 
duplicity,"  I  think  it  would  have  ruined  me,  for- 
ever, in  my  own  esteem.  And  would  he  not  have 
had  the  right  to  say  it  ? 

So  I  came  away  from  the  temptation  while  I 
could,  and  plunged  into  my  proper  work  on  earth, 
and  found  relief;  but  I  loved  her  still. 

Shall  I  speak  of  the  correspondence  which  ensued 
between  the  squire  and  myself?  'Twas  a  somewhat 
singular  one,  and  revealed  to  me  something  which 
I  was  before  quite  ignorant  of.  It  is  here  beneath 
my  hand ;  let  us  look  at  it.  It  passed  soon  after 
my  departure : 


32  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

"  BARRIXGTON  HALL,  Nov.  20, 13 — . 
"  MY    DEAR   YOUNG   FRIEND  : 

"  Since  your  somewhat  abrupt  departure,  I  have  considered 
that  event  with  some  attention,  and  fear  that  it  was  occasioned 
by  a  want  of  kindness  in  myself,  or  some  member  of  my  family. 
I  saw  with  regret  that  Mrs.  Barrington  did  not  seem  to  look  upon 
you  with  as  much  favor  as  I  hoped.  If  any  word  or  action  of  mine 
has  wounded  you,  I  pray  you  to  forget  and  pardon  it. 

"  Your  friend, 

"  C.  BARRINGTON. 

*'  P.  S.  Pray  present  my  best  regards  to  your  mother,  who  was 
many  long  years  ago,  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine." 

My  reply  was  in  the  following  words  : 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  BARRINGTON  : 

"  Pray  set  your  mind  at  rest  upon  the  subject  of  my  somewhat 
hasty  departure :  'twas  caused  by  no  want  of  courtesy  in  any  member 
of  the  household  at  the  hall,  but  by  unavoidable  circumstances.  You 
will  not  think  me  wanting  in  candor  or  sincerity  when  I  add  that  I 
think  these  circumstances  were  better  not  alluded  to  at  present. 
"  Truly  and  faithfully, 

"  ST.  GEORGE  CLEAVE." 

Thus  ended  then  our  correspondence.  Three 
years  afterward  I  received  another  letter,  in  a 
handwriting  somewhat  tremulous  and  broken.  It 
contained  simply  the  words : 

"  I  am  very  ill ;  if  your  convenience  will  permit,  may  I  ask  you 
to  come  and  see  me,  my  young  friend  ? 

"  C.  BARRINGTON." 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  33 

I  need  not  say  that  I  went  at  once.  As  I 
approached  the  old  manor  house  a  thousand  memo- 
ries knocked  at  the  door  of  my  heart.  There  were 
the  fields  over  which  I  had  rambled;  there  was 
the  emerald  lawn  where  so  often  I  had  wandered 
in  the  long-gone  days  of  earlier  years.  The  great 
oak  against  which  I  had  leaned  on  that  evening  to 
watch  the  sun  in  his  setting,  and  where  Annie  had 
whispered  and  pointed  to  my  torn  elbow,  still 
raised  its  head  proudly,  and  embowered  the  old 
gables  in  the  bright-tinted  foliage  of  autumn. 

I  entered.  The  old  portraits  I  had  loved  seemed 
to  smile ;  they  saluted  me  sweetly,  as  in  other 
hours ;  the  old  mansion  appeared  to  welcome  me — 
I  saw  no  change,  but  Annie  was  not  singing  in  the 
hall. 

All  at  once  I  heard  a  light  tinkling  footstep ; 
my  heart  beat  violently,  and  I  felt  a  blush  rise  to 
my  cheeks.  Was  the  queenly  woman  who  came  to 
meet  and  greet  me,  indeed  the  Annie  of  old  days  ? 
I  held  the  small  hand,  and  looked  into  the  deep  eyes 
for  some  moments  without  uttering  a  word.  She 
was  taller,  more  slender,  but  her  carriage  possessed 
a  grace  and  elegance  a  thousand  times  finer  than 
before.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  strangest 
sweetness,  and  swam  with  tears  as  she  gazed 
at  me. 

2* 


34:  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

"Papa  lias  been  waiting  impatiently  for  you, 
Mr.  Cleave,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice  ;  "  will 
you  come  up  and  see  him  at  once  ?  he  is  very  ill." 

And  turning  away  her  head,  the  fair  girl  burst 
into  uncontrollable  sobs,  every  one  of  which  went 
to  my  heart.  I  begged  her  earnestly  not  to  yield 
to  her  distress,  and  she  soon  dried  her  eyes,  and  led 
the  way  into  the  parlor,  where  I  was  received  by 
Mrs.  Barrington,  still  cold  and  stiff,  but  much  more 
subdued  and  courteous.  Annie  went  to  announce 
my  arrival  to  har  father,  and  soon  I  was  alone  with 
the  old  man. 

I  was  grieved  and  shocked  at  his  appearance. 
He  seemed  twenty  years  older.  I  scarcely  recog- 
nized in  the  pale,  thin,  invalid,  the  portly  country 
gentleman  whom  I  had  known. 

The  motive  for  his  letter  was  soon  explained. 
The  executorial  accounts,  whose  terrible  disarrange- 
ment I  had  aided,  five  years  before,  in  remedying, 
still  hung  over  the  dying  man's  head,  like  a  night- 
mare. He  could  not  die,  he  said,  with  the  thought 
in  his  mind,  that  any  one  might  attribute  this 
disorder  to  intentional  maladministration  —  "to 
fraud,  it  might  be." 

And  at  the  word  "fraud,"  his  wan  cheek  became 
crimson. 

"My  own   affairs,  Mr.   Cleave,"  he  continued, 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  35 

"  are,  I  find,  in  a  most  unhappy  condition.  I  have 
been  far  too  negligent ;  and  now,  on  my  death-bed, 
for  such  it  will  prove,  I  discover,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  am  well-nigh  a  ruined  man !" 

He  spoke  with  wild  energy  as  he  went  on.  I,  in 
vain,  attempted  to  impress  upon  him,  the  danger 
of  exciting  himself. 

"  I  must  explain  everything,  and  in  my  own 
way,"  he  said,  with  burning  cheeks,  "  for  I  look  to 
you  to  extricate  me.  I  have  appointed  you,  Mr. 
Cleave,  my  chief  executor ;  but,  above  all,  I  rely 
upon  you,  I  adjure  you,  to  protect  my  good  name 
in  those  horrible  accounts,  which  you  once  helped 
to  arrange,  but  which  haunt  me  day  and  night  like 
the  ghost  of  a  murdered  man !" 

The  insane  agitation  of  the  speaker  increased,  in 
spite  of  all  which  I  could  say.  It  led  him  to  make 
me  a  singular  revelation — to  speak  upon  a  subject 
which  I  had  never  even  dreamed  of.  His  pride 
and  caution  seemed  wholly  to  have  deserted  him ; 
and  he  continued  as  follows : 

"  You  are  surprised,  Sir,  that  I  should  thus  call 
upon  you.  You  are  young.  But  I  know  very  well 
what  I  am  doing.  Your  rank  in  your  profession  is 
sufficient  guaranty  that  you  are  competent  to 
perform  the  trust — my  knowledge  of  your  charac- 
ter is  correct  enough  to  induce  me  not  to  hesitate. 


36  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

There  is  another  tie  between  us.  Do  you  suspect 
its  nature  ?  I  loved  and  would  have  married  your 
mother.  She  was  poor — I  was  equally  poor — I 
was  dazzled  by  wealth,  and  was  miserably  happy 
when,  your  mother's  pride  made  her  refuse  my  suit. 
I  married — I  have  not  been  happy.  But  enough. 
I  should  never  have  spoken  of  this — never — but  I 
am  dying !  As  you  are  faithful  and  true,  St.  George 
Cleave,  let  my  good  name  and  Annie's  be  untar- 
nished!" 

There  the  interview  ended.  The  doctor  came  in, 
and  I  retired  to  reflect  upon  the  singular  communi- 
cation which  had  been  made  to  me.  On  the  same 
evening,  1  accepted  all  the  trusts  confided  to  me. 
In  a  week  the  sick  gentleman  was  sleeping  with  his 
fathers.  I  held  his  hand  when  he  died. 

I  shall  not  describe  the  grief  and  suffering  of 
every  one.  I  shall  not  trust  myself,  especially,  to 
speak  of  Annie.  Her  agony  was  almost  destruc- 
tive to  her  health — and  every  throb  which  shook 
her  frame,  shook  mine  as  well.  The  sight  of  her 
face  had  revived,  in  an  instant,  all  the  love  of  the 
past,  if  indeed  it  had  ever  slept.  I  loved  her  now, 
passionately,  profoundly.  As  I  thought  that  I  might 
win  her  love  in  return,  I  thrilled  with  a  vague 
delight. 

Well,  let  me  not  spin  out  my  story.    The  result 


OUT  AT   ELBOWS.  37 

of  my  examination  of  Mr.  Barrington's  aifairs,  was 
saddening  in  the  extreme.  He  was  quite  ruined. 
Neglect  and  extravagant  living,  with  security  debts, 
had  mortgaged  his  entire  property.  When  it  was 
settled,  and  the  hall  was  sold,  his  widow  and 
daughter  had  just  enough  to  live  upon  comfort- 
ably— scarcely  so  much.  They  gladly  embraced 
my  suggestion  to  remove  to  a  small  cottage  near 
our  own,  in  town,  and  there  they  now  live — you 
may  see  the  low  roof  through  the  window. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  my  reexamination  of  the 
executorial  accounts,  which  had  so  troubled  the 
poor  dying  gentleman,  proved  his  fears  quite  un- 
founded. There  was  mere  disorder — no  grounds  for 
"  exception."  I  told  as  much  to  Annie,  who  alone 
knew  all;  and  her  smile,  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
filled  with  thanks,  was  my  sole  executorial  "  com- 


vn. 

I  have  just  been  discarded  by  Annie. 

Let  me  endeavor  to  collect  my  thoughts  and 
recall  what  she  said  to  me.  My  head  is  troubled 
to-day — it  is  strange  what  a  want  of  self-control  I 
have  !  I  thought  I  was  strong — and  I  am  weaker 
than  a  child. 

I  told  her  that  I  loved  her — had  loved  her  for 


38  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

years — that  she  was  dearer,  far,  to  me  than  all  on 
earth  beside  my  mother.  And  she  answered  me — 
agitated,  but  perfectly  resolved  : 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  Cleave." 

A  long  pause  followed,  in  which  she  evidently 
labored  with  great  distress — then  she  continued : 

"  I  will  frankly  and  faithfully  say  why  I  cannot. 
I  know  all — I  know  your  feelings  for  me  once. 
You  went  away  because  you  were  poor,  and  you 
thought  I  was  rich.  Shall  I  be  less  strong  than 
yourself?  I  am  poor  now;  I  do  not  regret  it, 
except — pardon  me,  sir,  I  am  confused — I  meant  to 
say,  that  you  are  now  the  richer.  It  humbles  me 
to  speak  of  this — why  did  you  not  " 

There  she  stopped,  blushing  and  trembling. 

"  Why  did  I  not  ?  Oh !  do  not  stop  there,  I  pray 
you." 

She  replied  to  my  words  in  a  broken  and  agitated 
voice : 

"  I  cannot  finish.  I  was  thinking  of — of — the 
day  when  I  mended  your  coat !" 

And  a  smile  broke  through  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
as  she  gazed  timidly  at  me.  I  shall  not  prolong 
the  account  of  our  interview.  She  soon  left  me, 
resolute  to  the  last;  and  I  came  away,  perfectly 
miserable. 

What  shall  I  do  ?     I  cannot  live  without  her. 


OUT  AT  ELBOWS.  39 

My  life  would  be  a  miserable  mockery.  To  see  her 
there  near  me,  at  the  window,  in  the  street ;  to  see 
her  tresses  in  the  sunlight,  her  little  slipper  as  it 
flits  through  the  flower-enveloped  gate ;  to  feel  that 
she  is  near  me,  but  lost  to  me !  Never  could  I 
endure  it !  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Is  there  anything 
that  can  move  her  ? 

Ah !  that  may !  Let  me  try  it.  Oh,  for- 
tunate accident.  To-morrow,  or  very  soon — very 
soon! 


Yin. 

A  week  after  my  rejection,  I  went  up  to  my 
chamber,  and  drew  from  the  depths  of  my  ward- 
robe, the  old  coat  which  Annie  had  mended.  I 
had  promised  her  to  preserve  it.  I  had  kept  my 
promise.  Yes,  there  it  was,  just  as  I  had  worn  it 
at  the  hall — my  shabby  old  coat  of  five  years  ago ! 
I  put  it  on,  smiling,  and  surveyed  myself  in  a 
mirror.  It  was  strangely  old-fashioned ;  but  I 
did  not  think  of  that.  I  seemed  to  have  re- 
turned, all  at  once,  to  the  past;  its  atmosphere 
embraced  me ;  all  its  flowers  bloomed  gaily  before 
my  eyes. 

I  looked  at  the  hole  in  the  elbow.    There  were 


40  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Annie's  stitches — her  fingers  had  clasped  the  worn, 
decayed  cloth — the  old  garment  had  rested  on  her 
arm  ! 

I  think  I  must  have  gazed  at  the  coat  for  an 
houj,  motionless  in  the  sunlight,  and  thinking  of 
old  days.  Then  I  aroused  myself,  suddenly,  put  on 
my  hat,  and,  with  a  beating  heart,  went  to  ask  if 
Annie  remembered. 

I  shall  not  relate  the  details  of  our  interview. 
She  remembered !  Oh,  word  so  sweet  or  so  filled 
with  sadness !  with  a  world  of  sorrow  or  delight  in 
its  sound  !  She  remembered — and  her  heart  could 
resist  no  longer.  She  remembered  the  poor  youth 
who  had  loved  her  so  dearly — whom  she,  too,  had 
loved  in  the  far  away  past.  She  remembered  the 
days  when  her  father  was  well  and  happy — 
when  his  kind  voice  greeted  me,  and  his  smile 
gave  me  friendly  welcome.  She  remembered  the 
old  days,  with  their  flowers  and  sunshine — the 
old  hall,  and  the  lawn,  and  the  singing  birds. 
Can  you  wonder  that  her  soft,  tender  bosom 
throbbed,  that  her  heart  was  "melted  in  her 
breast  ?" 

So  she  plighted  me  her  troth — the  dream  and 
joy  of  my  youth.  We  shall  very  soon  be  mar- 
ried. The  ship  which  I  sent  from  the  shore  long 
ago  has  come  again  to  port,  with  a  grander 


OUT   AT   ELBOWS.  41 

treasure  than  the  earth  holds  beside — it  is  the 
precious,  young  head  which  reclined  upon  my 
heart ! 

And  again  I  can  say,  as  I  said  long  ago : 

u  how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  live  !" 


MY    SECEET. 

(FROM  THE  FRENCH.) 
BY   HENBY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

MY  soul  its  secret  lias,  my  life  too  has  its  mystery, 
A  love  eternal  in  a  moment's  space  conceived  ; 
Hopeless  the  evil  is,  I  have  not  told  its  history, 
And  she  who   was  the   cause,  nor  knew  it,  nor 

believed. 

Alas !  I  shall  have  passed  close  by  her  unperceived, 
Forever  at  her  side,  and  yet  forever  lonely, 
1  shall  unto  the  end  have  made  life's  journey,  only 
Daring    to    ask  for  naught,   and  having  naught 

received. 
For  her,  though  God  has  made  her  gentle   and 

endearing, 
She  will  go  on  her  way  distraught  and  without 

hearing 
These  murmurings  of  love   that  round  her  steps 

ascend, 

42 


MY    SECRET.  43 

Piously  faithful  still  unto  her  austere  duty, 

Will  say,  when  she  shall  read  these  lines  full  of  her 

beauty, 

"  Who  can  this  woman  be  ?"  and  will  not  compre- 
hend. 


A    LEAF 

FROM  MY  PARIS  NOTE-BOOK. 

BY    II.    T.    TUCKEKMAN. 

FRESH  from  Italy,  we  enter  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre  with  a  feeling  that  it  is  but  a  grand  prolon- 
gation of  the  glorious  array  of  pictured  and  sculp- 
tured trophies,  scattered  in  such  memorable  luxu- 
riance, through  that  chosen  land  of  art ;  but  the 
sensation  is  that  of  delightful  surprise  when  we 
have  but  recently  explored  the  dim  chambers  of  the 
National  Gallery,  or  obtained  formal  access  to 
a  private  British  collection.  To  cross  the  now 
magnificent  hall  of  Apollo,  with  its  grand  propor- 
tions flooded  by  a  cloudless  sun,  expands  the  mind 
and  brightens  the  vision  for  their  feast  of  beauty. 
Here  too,  a  magic  improvement  has  been  recently 
wrought,  and  the  architectural  renovation  lends  new 
effect  to  the  ancient  treasures,  so  admirably  pre- 
served and  arranged.  I  stood  long  at  one  of  the 
windows  and  looked  down  upon  the  Seine  ;  it  was 


A  LEAF   FROM  MY   PARIS   NOTE-BOOK.  45 

thence  that  the  people  were  fired  upon  at  the  mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew ;  there  rose,  dark  and 
fretted,  the  antique  tower  of  Notre  Dame,  here  was 
the  site  of  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  that  legend  of  crime 
wrought  in  stone  ;  gracefully  looked  the  bridges  as 
they  spanned  the  swollen  current  of  the  river ;  cheer- 
fully lay  the  sunshine  on  quay  and  parapet ;  it  was 
a  scene  where  the  glow  of  nature  and  the  shadows 
of  history  unite  to  lend  a  charm  to  the  panorama  of 
modern  civilization.  And  turning  the  gaze  within, 
how  calm  and  refreshing  seemed  the  long  and  high 
vistas  of  the  gallery  ;  how  happy  the  artists  at  their 
easels  ; — girls  with  their  frugal  dinners  in  a  basket 
on  the  pavement,  copying  a  Flemish  scene ;  youths 
drawing  intently  some  head  of  an  old  master  ;  vete- 
rans of  the  palette  reproducing  the  tints  born 
under  Venetian  skies ;  and  groups  standing  in  silent 
admiration  before  some  exquisite  gem  or  wonderful 
conception.  It  is  like  an  audience  with  the  peers 
of  art  to  range  the  Louvre  ;  in  radiant  state  and 
majestic  silence  they  receive  their  reverend  guests ; 
first  smiles  down  upon  him  the  celestial  meekness 
of  Raphael's  holy  women,  then  the  rustic  truth  of 
Mnrillo's  peasant  mothers,  and  the  most  costly, 
though,  to  our  mind,  not  the  most  expressive,  of  all 
his  pictures — the  late  acquisition  for  which  kings 
competed  at  Marshal  Soult's  sale ;  now  we  are 


46  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

warmed  by  the  rosy  flush  of  Kubens — like  a  mellow 
sunset  beaming  from  the  walls  ;  and  now  startled  at 
the  life-like  individuality  of  Vandyke's  portraits,  as 
they  gaze  down  with  such  placid  dignity  and  keen 
intelligence ;  at  one  point,  we  examine  with  mere 
curiosity  the  stiff  outlines  of  early  religious  limning ; 
and,  at  another,  smile  at  the  homely  nature  of  the 
Dutch  school;  Philip  de  Champagne's  portraits, 
Wouverman's  white  horses,  Cuyp's  meadows  and 
kine,  Steen's  rural  fetes,  Claude's  sunsets,  Pannini's 
architecture  and  Sneyder's  animals ;  David's  melo- 
dramatic pieces,  Isabey's  miniatures,  Oudny's  dogs, 
Robert's  "  Harvest  Home,"  all  hint  a  chapter,  not 
only  in  the  history  of  art,  but  in  the  philosophy  of 
life  and  the  secrets  of  the  beautiful — enshrined  there 
for  the  world's  enjoyment,  with  a  liberal  policy  yet 
more  aptly  illustrated  by  the  vast  and  lofty  colon- 
nades, the  courteous  custodes,  and  the  provisions  for 
students  in  the  drawings  of  successive  schools. 

In  order  to  exchange  the  fascinations  of  the 
moment  for  the  lessons  of  the  past,  one  cloudy 
morning  we  drove  through  the  avenue  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  by  the  triumphal  arch  of  Napo- 
leon, to  the  palace  of  St.  Cloud,  and  from  the  esplan- 
ade gazed  back  upon  the  city,  over  the  plain  below, 
to  the  dense  mass  of  buildings  surmounted  by  the 
domes  of  the  Invalids,  and  the  Pantheon  and  the 


A   LEAF   FROM   MY   PARIS   NOTE.BOOK.  4r*f 

towers  of  Notre  Dame.  To  the  eye  of  contempla- 
tion it  is  one  of  the  most  memorable  of  landscapes  ; 
a  stand-point  for  historical  reverie,  which  attunes 
the  mind  for  subsequent  and  less  discursive  retro- 
spection. Enter  the  apartment  where  Bonaparte 
dispersed  the  assembly  of  five  hundred — the  inita- 
tory  act  of  his  rule ;  it  is  now  a  conservatory,  whence 
rising  terrace  walks,  statues  and  fountains  only  are 
visible  ;  in  the  fresh  silence  of  morning,  they  offered 
a  striking  contrast  to  that  eventful  scene.  In  an 
adjacent  room  a  picture  representing  Maria  de 
Medici's  interview  with  Sully  after  the  death  of 
Henry  IY.,  carries  us  back  to  an  earlier  era.  Here 
Blucher  had  his  headquarters,  and  here  was  set- 
tled the  convention  by  which  Paris  was  yielded  to 
the  allies.  The  saloon  of  Yernet,  the  well-trimmed 
vine-trees  of  the  garden,  the  vivid  hues  of  the 
tapestry,  the  newly  waxed  floors,  the  hangings  and 
couches  of  Lyons  silk,  the  elegant  Sevres  vases,  and 
Florentine  tables  oipietra  dura,  the  velvet  cushions 
of  the  chapel,  and  late  publications  on  the  library 
desks — all  free  of  speck  or  stain — proclaim  this  sum- 
mer palace  as  great  a  favorite  now  as  when  resorted 
to  by  the  princes  of  Orleans.  In  this  hall  the  two 
Napoleons  were  proclaimed ;  and  the  brilliant 
memory  of  those  summer  festivals  that  lately  made 
St.  Cloud  dazzling  with  light  and  beauty,  was 


48  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

reflected  from  mirror,  cornice,  and  tinted  fabric ; 
from  this  gilt  on  the  iron  chain  of  usurped  dominion, 
a  glance  through  the  window  revealed  its  origin  : 
a  throng  of  people  were  on  their  way  to  mass  and  a 
regiment  was  on  parade — the  one  illustrating  the 
blind  exaction  of  bigoted  authority,  the  other  the 
machinery  of  brute  force — the  church  and  the  army, 
the  mitre  and  the  sword,  superstition  and  violence  ; 
with  these,  in  all  ages,  have  the  multitude  been  sub- 
dued ;  and  between  these  two  representations  of 
elemental  despotism,  clustered  on  a  high  wall,  stood 
a  crowd  to  watch  the  meek  procession  of  worshippers, 
and  the  exactitude  of  the  manual,  or  admire  the 
spirited,  yet  controlled,  evolutions  of  the  officer  on 
his  noble  charger.  The  whole  scene  typified  France 
as  she  is ;  uneducated  devotees,  a  military  organiza- 
tion at  the  beck  of  its  chief,  and  a  surplus  of  curi- 
ous, intimidated  or  acquiescent  spectators. 

To  pass  from  St.  Cloud  to  Yersailles  is  like  turn- 
ing from  the  last  to  the  first  chapters  of  French 
history.  The  vast  court  of  the  palace  is  lined  with 
colossal  statues;  and  thus  we  enter  the  vestibule 
through  a  file  of  pale  and  majestic  sentinels,  sum- 
moned, as  it  were,  from  the  tomb  to  guard  the 
trophies  of  nationality.  Our  pilgrimage  through 
such  a  world  of  effigies  begins  with  Clovis  and 
Charlemagne,  and  ends  with  Louis  Philippe :  the 


A  LEAF  FROM  MY  PARIS  NOTE-BOOK.  4:9 

place  itself  is  the  ancient  home  of  royalty;  the 
gardens,  visible  from  every  window,  have  been  trod 
by  generations  of  monarchs  and  courtiers;  the 
ceilings  bear  the  arms  of  the  noble  families  of  the 
kingdom ;  while  around  are  the  faces  and  figures  of 
the  men  of  valor  and  of  genius  that  consecrate  her 
history.  Through  this  panorama  move  peasants, 
workmen,  citizens,  and  foreigners,  gazing  unre- 
stricted, as  upon  a  procession  evoked  from  the  inex- 
orable past,  in  which  are  all  those  of  whom  they 
have  heard  or  read  as  illustrious  in  France;  they 
see  the  battles,  the  leaders,  the  kings,  the  poets,  the 
human  material  of  history.  This  grand  conception, 
which  has  of  late  years  been  mainly  realized  by  the 
last  king,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  grand  and 
significant  of  modern  times.  Even  in  this,  our  one 
day's  observation,  how  many  ideas  are  revived,  how 
many  characters  brought  into  view ;  what  events, 
associations  and  people  throng  upon  our  conscious- 
ness, as  slowly  gazing,  we  tread  the  interminable 
halls  and  scan  the  countless  memorials  of  Ver- 
sailles ! 

Taking  up  the  thread  of  reminiscence  when  look- 
ing at  the  old  moldy  mortar  that  belonged  to  the 
knights  of  St.  John  when  at  Rhodes,  the  expiring 
chivalry  of  Europe  gleams  fitfully  upon  us,  once 
more,  to  provoke  a  mortifying  comparison  with  the 

3 


50  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

not  yet  completed  pictures  of  the  capture  of  Abd-el- 
Kader  and  the  last  siege  of  Home ;  thence  turn 
to  the  "  Jen  de  Paume,"  where  the  ardent  figure  of 
Mirabeau.  represents  the  genius  of  the  Revolution, 
and -from  it  to  "Louis  XYIH.  and  the  Charter," 
emblematic  of  the  Restoration ;  how  shines  on  this 
canvas  the  "  helmet  of  Navarre "  in  the  "  Battle 
of  Ivry,"  as  in  Macaulay's  spirited  lyric,  and 
chastely  beautiful  in  its  stainless  marble,  stands  the 
heroic  Maid  of  Orleans;  while,  appropriately  in 
the  midst  of  these  historic  characters,  we  find  the 
bust  of  that  ideal  of  picturesque  narrators,  Frois- 
sart.  The  modern  rule  of  France  is  abruptly  and 
almost  grotesquely  suggested  amid  such  associa- 
tions, by  the  figure  of  De  Joinville  on  the  deck  of  a 
man-of-war,  well  described  by  Talfourd,  as  "  the 
type  of  dandified,  melodramatic  seamanship." 
The  cycles  of  kingly  sway  is  abruptly  broken  by 
the  meteoric  episode  of  Bonaparte :  first  he  appears 
dispersing  the  Assembly,  and  then  in  his  early 
victories,  wounded  at  Ratisbon,  at  the  tomb  of 
Frederick  the  Great,  distributing  the  Legion  of 
Honor  at  the  Invalides,  quelling  an  insurrection  at 
Cairo,  engaged  in  his  unparalleled  succession  of 
battles,  and  at  the  altar  with  Maria  Louisa.  The 
divorce  from  Josephine  and  the  murder  of  the 
Due  D'Enghien,  are  events  that  only  recur  more 


A  LEAF  FKOM  MY   PARIS   NOTE-BOOK.  51 

impressively  to  the  mind  of  the  spectator  because 
uncoinmemorated.  From  the  career  of  military 
genius  which  transformed  the  destinies  of  France, 
we  pass  to  apartments  where  still  breathes  the 
vestiges  of  legitimacy  as  in  the  hour  of  its  prime. 
The  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XIY.  in  the  court- 
yard, his  bed  and  crown,  his  clock  and  chair  in  the 
long  suite  of  rooms  kept  sacred  to  his  memory, 
typify  the  age  when  genius  and  beauty  min- 
gled their  charms  in  the  corrupt  atmosphere  of 
intrigue  and  profligacy.  The  noble  expanse  of 
wood,  water,  and  meadow;  the  paths  lined  with 
stately  myrtles  and  ancient  box,  spread  as  invit- 
ingly to  the  eye  from  this  embayed  window,  as 
when  the  grand  monarque  stood  there  to  watch  the 
graceful  walk  of  La  Valliere,  or  the  staid  carriage 
of  Maintenon.  The  abandonment  and  quietude  of 
these  chambers,  mirrored,  tapestried,  and  solitary, 
owe  not  a  little  of  the  spell  they  exercise  over  the 
imagination,  to  the  vicinity  of  the  galleries  devoted 
to  the  men  of  the  Revolution  and  the  campaigns 
of  '92  ;  amid  the  smoke  of  conflict  ever  appears 
that  resolute,  olive  face  with  the  dark  eye  fixed  and 
the  thin  lip  curved  in  decision  or  expectancy.  We 
mechanically  repeat  Campbell's  elegy  as  we  mark 
"  Hohenlinden,"  and  linger  with  patriotic  gratitude 
over  "  Yorktown,"  notwithstanding  the  absurd 


52  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

prominence  given  to  the  French  officers;  Conde, 
Turenne,  Moreau,  Lannes,  Massena,  and  Lafayette 
fight  over  again  before  us  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  the 
Empire,  or  the  Eepublic.  The  monotony  of  these 
scenes  of  destruction  is  only  relieved  by  the  indivi- 
dual memories  of  the  chiefs ;  they  link  a  certain  in- 
dividuality with  the  flame  and  shroud  of  war,  the 
fragmentary  conquests,  and  the  struggles  that  make 
up  so  large  a  portion  of  external  history ;  and  we 
emerge  from  the  crowd  of  warriors  into  the  com- 
pany of  statesmen,  wits,  and  poets,  with  a  sensation 
of  refreshment.  Each  single  triumph  of  thought, 
each  victory  of  imagination  and  memorial  of 
character,  has  an  absolute  worth  and  charm  that 
the  exploits  of  armies  can  never  emulate. 

Racine's  portrait  revives  the  long  controversy 
between  the  classic  and  romantic  schools ;  that  of 
LaBruy^re  the  art  of  character-painting  now  one 
of  the  highest  functions  of  popular  literature ;  that 
of  Bossuet  the  pulpit  eloquence  of  France  and  the 
persecution  of  Fe"nelon,  and  that  of  Saint  Cyr  the 
Jansenist  discussion.  A  blank  like  that  which  desig- 
nates the  place  of  Marino  Faliero  in  the  Ducal 
palace  at  Venice,  is  left  here  for  Le  Sage,  as  the 
nativity  of  the  author  of  Gil  Bias  is  yet  disputed. 
"We  look  at  Rousseau  to  revert  to  the  social  reforms, 
of  which  he  was  the  pioneer ;  at  La  Place  to  realize 


A   LEAF   FEOM   MY   PAKIS   NOTE-BOOK.  53 

the  achievements  of  the  exact  sciences,  and  at  St. 
Pierre  to  remember  the  poetry  of  nature.  Voltaire's 
likeness  is  not  labelled  for  the  same  reason  that 
there  is  no  name  on  the  tomb  of  Ney ;  both  are  too 
well  known  to  require  announcement  How  incon- 
gruous become  the  associations  as  we  proceed  ;  old 
Pere  la  Chaise  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  American 
Presidents ;  Cagliostro,  who  died  before  the  word 
his  career  incarnated  had  become  indispensable  to 
the  English  tongue — the  apotheosis  of  humbug ; 
Marmontel,  dear  to  our  novitiate  as  novel  readers ; 
and  near  by  the  original  Pamela ;  Chateaubriand's 
ancestor  the  Marshal ;  Bisson  going  below  to 
ignite  the  magazine,  rather  than  "give  up  the 
ship ;"  and  the  battered  war  dog,  with  a  single  eye 
and  leg,  beneath  whose  fragmentary  portrait  is 
inscribed  that  Mars  left  him  only  a  heart. 

It  is  with  singular  interest  that  we  look  upon  the 
authentic  resemblance  of  persons  with  whose  minds 
and  career  literature  has  made  us  familiar,  and 
compare  what  we  have  imagined  of  their  appear- 
ance with  the  reality.  Of  such  characters  as 
Gluck,  Klopstock  and  Madame  Le  Brun,  whose 
ministry  of  art  has  excited  a  vague  delight,  we  may 
have  formed  no  very  distinct  image ;  but  associated 
as  is  the  name  of  Madame  Roland  with  courage, 
suffering  and  affliction,  we  naturally  expect  a  more 


54:  GIFTS    OF    GENIUS. 

dignified  and  less  vivacious  expression  than  here 
meets  us,  until  we  remember  the  earlier  develop- 
ment of  her  rare  and  sympathetic  intelligence. 
Count  Mirabeau  has  a  look  of  mildness  and  sang 
froid  instead  of  the  earnestness  we  fancied.  Who 
would  have  supposed  the  fair  assassin  of  Marat  such 
a  thin,  delicate  and  spirituelle  blonde  ?  The  sensuous 
face  of  George  IY.  and  the  tragic  one  of  Charles  L, 
in  the  ever  recurring  Yandyke,  with  Sheridan's 
confident,  handsome  and  genial  physiognomy,  seem 
grouped  to  make  more  elevated,  by  comparison, 
the  noble  abstraction  of  Flaxman.  Talleyrand 
resembles  a  keen,  selfish,  humorous  and  gentle- 
manly man  of  the  world,  in  an  unexceptionable 
white  wig.  Richelieu  is  piquant  and  Madame 
de  Stael  impassioned  and  Amazonian.  What 
decadence  even  in  the  warlike  notabilities  is  hinted 
by  glancing  from  Soult  to  Oudinot !  I  thought  of 
the  French  fleet  in  the  memorable  storm  off  New- 
port, as  I  recognized  the  portrait  of  the  Count 
d'Estaing ;  and  realized  anew  the  military  instinct 
of  the  nation  in  the  preponderance  of  battle-scenes 
and  heroes,  and  marked  the  interest  with  which 
groups  of  soldiers  lingered  and  talked  before 
them. 


THE  KETUKN  OF  THE  GODDESS. 

BY     BAYARD     TAYLOR. 

as  in  youth,  with  steps  outspeeding  morn, 
And  cheeks  all  bright  from  rapture  of  the  way, 
But  in  strange  mood,  half  cheerful,  half  forlorn, 
She  comes  to  me  to-day. 

Does  she  forget  the  trysts  we  used  to  keep, 

When  dead  leaves  rustled  on  autumnal  ground  ? 
Or  the  lone  garret,  whence  she  banished  sleep 
"With  threats  of  silver  sound  ? 

Does  she  forget  how  shone  the  happy  eyes 

When  they  beheld  her  ? — how  the  eager  tongue 
Plied  its  swift  oar  through  wave-like  harmonies, 
To  reach  her  where  she  sung  ? 

How  at  her  sacred  feet  I  cast  me  down  ? 

How  she  upraised  me  to  her  bosom  fair, 
And  from  her  garland  shred  the  first  light  crown 
That  ever  pressed  my  hair  ? 

65 


56  GIFTS   OF 

Though  dust  is  on  the  leaves,  her  breath  will  bring 

Their  freshness  back :  why  lingers  she  so  long  ? 
The  pulseless  air  is  waiting  for  her  wing, 
Dumb  with  unuttered  song. 

If  tender  doubt  delay  her  on  the  road, 

Oh  let  her  haste,  to  find  that  doubt  belied  ! 
If  shame  for  love  unworthily  bestowed, 

That  shame  shall  melt  in  pride. 

If  she  but  smile,  the  crystal  calm  will  break 

In  music,  sweeter  than  it  ever  gave, 
As  when  a  breeze  breathes  o'er  some  sleeping  lake 
And  laughs  in  every  wave. 

The  ripples  of  awakened  song  shall  die 

Kissing  her  feet,  and  woo  her  not  in  vain, 
Until,  as  once,  upon  her  breast  I  lie, 
Pardoned  and  loved  again. 


POPULAR  KNOWLEDGE. 


BY   GEOEGE   8.    HILLAED. 

AGAINST  all  institutions  for  the  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge among  the  community,  an  objection  is  often 
urged  that  they  can  teach  nothing  thoroughly,  but 
only  superficially,  and  that  modest  ignorance  is 
better  than  presumptuous  half-knowledge.  How 
frequently  is  it  said  that  "a  little  learning  is  a 
dangerous  thing."  This  celebrated  line  is  a  strik- 
ing instance  of  the  vitality  which  may  be  given  to 
what  is  at  least  a  very  doubtful  proposition  by 
throwing  it  into  a  pointed  form.  If  anything  be  a 
good  at  all,  it  is  a  good  precisely  in  proportion  to 
the  extent  in  which  it  is  possessed  or  enjoyed.  A 
great  deal  of  it  is  better  than  a  little,  but  a  little  is 
better  than  none.  ~No  one  says  or  thinks  that 
a  little  conscience,  or  a  little  wisdom,  or  a  little 
faith,  or  a  little  charity  is  a  dangerous  thing.  Why 
then  is  a  little  learning  dangerous  ?  Alas,  it  is  not 
the  little  learning,  but  the  much  ignorance  which 
it  supposes,  that  is  dangerous  ! 

3*  W 


58  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

We  also  frequently  hear  it  said,  that  the  general 
diffusion  of  popular  knowledge  is  unfavorable  to 
great  acquisitions  in  any  one  individual.  This  is  a 
favorite  dogma  with  those  persons  whose  views  are 
all  retrospective,  who  are  ever  magnifying  past 
ages  at  the  expense  of  the  present,  and  who  will 
insist  upon  riding  through  life  with  their  faces 
turned  toward  the  horse's  tail  instead  of  his  head. 
"  We  have  smatterers  and  sciolists  in  abundance," 
say  they,  "but  where  are  the  giant  scholars  of 
other  days  ?"  Dr.  Johnson  once  said,  in  reply  to  a 
remark  upon  the  general  intelligence  of  the  people 
of  Scotland,  that  learning  in  Scotland  was  like 
bread  in  a  besieged  city,  where  every  man  gets  a 
mouthful,  but  none  a  full  meal.  He  also  observed 
in  a  conversation  held  with  Lord  Monboddo,  that 
learning  had  much  decreased  in  England,  since  his 
remembrance ;  to  which  his  lordship  remarked, 
"  you  have  lived  to  see  its  decrease  in  England ;  I, 
its  extinction  in  Scotland."  The  fallacy,  of  views 
like  these  consists  in  taking  it  for  granted  that 
there  is  always  just  about  the  same  aggregate 
amount  of  knowledge  in  the  world,  and  that  only 
the  ratio  of  distribution  is  changed.  But  there  is 
no  such  analogy  between  learning  and  material 
substances.  The  wealth  of  the  mind  is  not  like 
gold,  which  must  be  beaten  out  the  finer,  as  the 


ON   POPULAR   KNOWLEDGE.  59 

surface  to  be  covered  by  it  is  more  extensive.  As 
to  the  alleged  superiority  of  past  ages,  in  anything 
essential,  I  am  more  than  skeptical.  I  hold  rather 
that  of  all  good  things,  learning  included,  there  is 
as  much  in  the  world  now  as  there  ever  was — not 
to  say  more.  The  great  scholars  of  Europe  in  our 
time  are  not  inferior  to  the  greatest  of  their  prede- 
cessors. Even  in  classical  literature  and  antiqui- 
ties, the  searching,  analyzing  and  investigating 
spirit  of  our  age  has  poured  new  light  upon  the 
remote  past,  and  rendered  the  labors  of  former 
generations  useless.  By  elevating  the  general 
standard,  it  is  true  that  there  is  less  distance 
between  the  common  mind  and  the  deeply  learned. 
The  scholars  of  the  middle  ages  seem  the  higher, 
from  the  low  level  of  ignorance  from  which  they 
rise.  They  are  like  mountains  shooting  abruptly 
from  the  plain.  Our  scholars  seem  to  have  reached 
an  inferior  point  of  elevation,  because  the  level  of 
the  general  mind  has  come  nearer  to  them,  as 
mountain  peaks  lose  somewhat  of  their  apparent 
height  when  they  spring  from  a  raised  table  land* 


ON    RECEIVING    A 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED  VOLUME  OF  POEMS 
FROM  A  FRIEND. 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  BEAD. 

A  MODEST  bud  matured  mid  secret  dews, 

May  yield  its  bloom  beside  some  hidden  path, 

Full  of  sweet  perfumes  and  of  rarest  hues 

"While  few  may  note  the  beauty  which  it  hath — 

And  yet  perchance  some  maiden,  wandering  there, 
May  bend  beside  it  with  a  loving  look, 

Or  by  the  streamlet  place  it  in  her  hair ; 
And  smile  above  her  image  in  the  brook. 

A  bird  with  pinions  beautiful,  and  shy, 

May  sing  scarce  noted  mid  the  noisier  throng ; 

Or  'scaping  earth,  take  refuge  in  the  sky 
And  though  concealed  still  charm  the  air  with 
song. 


ON   RECEIVING   A   VOLUME   OF   POEMS.  61 

Yet  haply  some  enamored  ear  may  hark, 
And  deem  it  sweetest  of  the  birds  that  sing ; 

Or  in  his  heart  still  praise  the  unseen  lark 
That  leads  his  fancies  toward  its  heavenward  wing. 

A  star  in  some  sequestered  nook  on  high, 
In  its  deep  niche  of  blue  may  calmly  shine, 

While  careless  eyes  that  wander  o'er  the  sky, 
May  only  deem  the  brightest  orbs  divine. 

But  there  are  those  who  love  to  sit  and  trace 
Between  all  these  some  shy  retiring  light, 

For  such,  they  know,  shed  through  the  veil  of  space 
The  general  halo  that  adorns  the  night. 

Thus  many  a  poet's  volume  unproclaimed 
By  all  the  myriad  tongues  of  Fame  afar, 

The  few  may  deem  as  worthy  to  be  named, 
(As  I  do  this)  a  Flower,  a  Bird,  a  Star ! 


THE  PKINCE  AT  LAND'S  END. 

BY   CAROLINE   OHESEBEO. 

LAST  from  the  church  came  the  organist,  Daniel 
Summerman.  He  was  less  hurried  than  others ;  to 
him  it  was  not,  as  to  people  in  general,  a  day  of 
increased  social  responsibility.  His  great  duty  was 
now  performed.  Done,  whether  well  or  ill.  He 
descended  the  stairs  slowly,  but  with  a  step  so  light 
you  might  have  taken  it  for  a  child's.  No  need  for 
him  to  haste ;  the  precious  moments  would  go  fast 
enough — he  wished  not  to  lose  one. 

In  the  porch  he  paused  a  moment,  to  draw  on  his 
woollen  gloves,  and  button  his  great  coat,  and  for 
something  besides.  Perhaps  the  person  who  laid 
the  wreath  of  cedar  leaves  on  his  organ  stool  was 
somewhere  about,  and  had  some  criticism  to  offer 
in  respect  to  the  choir's  performance. 

But  he  descended  the  church  steps  without  hav- 
ing met  even  the  sexton ;  somewhat  disappointed, 
it  was  not  with  indifference  that  he  saw  a  stranger 
standing  in  the  churchyard  among  the  graves ;  by 

655 


63 

the  grave,  it  chanced,  of  a  child  who  died  in 
October,  five  years  old.  "When  the  organist  per- 
ceived this,  a  purpose  which  he  would  have  formed 
later  in  the  day,  anticipated  itself,  and  led  him  to 
the  little  mound.  He  would  leave  the  cedar 
wreath  on  Mary's  grave. 

He  was  not  ashamed  of  his  gracious  purpose 
when  he  had  drawn  near.  His  gentle  heart  was 
glad  to  do  this  homage  to  the  dead,  in  the  presence 
of  a  stranger  who  had  never  seen  the  living  child. 
Stooping  down,  he  smoothed  the  frozen  grass,  and 
laid  the  wreath  upon  it ;  and  when  he  saw  the 
stranger  watching  him,  he  said : 

u  She  was  the  prettiest  child  in  the  village ;  if 
she  had  lived,  we  should  have  had  one  singer  in  the 
choir.  I  would  have  taught  her.  She  loved  music 
so  much." 

Here  was  an  introduction  sufficient  for  an  ordi- 
nary man.  At  least  the  organist  thought  so.  But 
when  he  looked  at  the  stranger  he  was  sorry  that 
he  had  spoken,  for  no  genial  sympathy  was  in  that 
face,  and  still  less  in  the  voice  that  asked, 

"  Will  you  leave  the  wreath  here  ?  "Where  did 
it  come  from  ?" 

The  organist  replied  as  though  he  did  not  per- 
ceive the  indifference  with  which  the  questions  werft 
asked : 


64:  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

"  I  found  it  in  the  choir,"  said  he.  "  One  of  the 
children  left  it,  may  be.  Any  way  this  is  the  best 
place  for  it.  Dear  little  girl!  I  should  hate  to 
think  that  she  was  really  down  there." 

'.'  "Where,  then  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Up  above,  as  sure  as  there's  a  heaven."  As 
Summerman  spoke,  he  stepped  from  the  frozen 
ground  to  the  gravel  walk,  and  turning  his  back  on 
the  stranger  he  brushed  a  tear  from  his  cheek. 

The  gentleman,  whose  name  was  Redman  Rush, 
followed  him.  He  was  a  well-dressed  person ; 
indeed,  his  attire  was  splendid,  in  comparison  with 
the  rough  garments  of  the  little  organist.  His  fine 
broadcloth  cloak  was  trimmed  profusely  with  rare 
fur,  and  he  wore  a  fur  cap  that  must  have  cost  half 
as  much  as  the  church  paid  Summerman  for  play- 
ing the  organ  a  twelvemonth.  He  was  a  noticeable 
person,  not  merely  on  account  of  his  dress.  His 
bearing  was  elegant,  that  of  a  well-bred  man,  not 
indifferent  to  the  eyes  of  others;  that  of  a  man 
somewhat  cautious  of  the  reflection  he  should  cast 
in  a  region  of  shadows  and  appearances.  But, 
moreover,  the  face  of  this  Redman  Rush  was  the 
face  of  misery.  If  ever  a  wreck  came  to  shore, 
here  was  the  torn  and  battered  fragment  of  a 
gallant  craft. 

""Were  you  in  the  church  this  morning?"  asked 


65 

the  organist,  struggling  with  himself,  speaking 
with  effort;  for,  to  his  gaze,  the  aspect  of  the 
stranger  was  forbidding  and  awful ;  and  yet  it  was 
beyond  his  power  to  walk  by  the  side  of  any  man 
cautious,  cold,  and  dumb.  This  person  was  at  least 
a  gentleman,  and  perhaps  understood  music. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

"  How  did  the  singing  go  ?" 

"  Tolerably." 

"That's  a  comfort,"  said  the  organist,  looking 
more  pleased  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant. 
But  he  was  not  a  vain  man ;  he  merely  supposed 
that  the  gentleman's  reply  promised  criticism  worth 
hearing. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  it  yourself?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  after  a  fashion.  I  play  the  organ.  It 
isn't  the  best  situation  for  hearing.  I  thought  it 
decent.  Particularly  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis.  I 
was  most  anxious  about  that.  How  did  it  sound  to 
you,  sir?" 

"  Well." 

"  But,  after  all,  they  didn't  understand  it." 

"  Understand  what  ?" 

"  The  meaning.  It  opens  with  the  song  of  the 
angels,  you.  know.  '  Glory  be  to  God  on  high ;  on 
earth,  peace,  good  will  toward  men.'  They  couldn't 
tell,  coherently,  what  the  Peace  and  Good  Will 


GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

meant.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  How  can  they 
sing  what  they  don't  understand  ?" 

"  Surely.     Why  don't  you  teach  them  ?" 

"  Why  don't  I  teach  them !"  exclaimed  the 
organist.  "I'm  not  a  brain-maker;  that's  the 
reason,  I  suppose." 

"Then,  you've  tried  it?" 

For  a  minute  Summerman  seemed  vexed  by  this 
question ;  but  for  no  longer  than  a  minute. 

"What's  the  use?  what's  the  use?"  he  said  to 
himself,  and  his  answer  to  the  question  was  a 
laugh. 

The  laugh,  though  neither  loud  nor  boisterous, 
but  merely  a  mild  evidence  of  good-nature  that 
was  not  to  be  clouded  by  vexations,  had  a  disagree- 
able sound  to  Redman  Rush.  He  looked  con- 
temptuous, and  felt  more  than  he  looked,  so  that  it 
was  really  surprising  to  see  him  linger  for  such 
conversation  as  this  of  the  organist,  and  to  hear 
him  ask, 

"  How  do  you  teach  your  choir  ?  Whose  fault  is 
it  that  they  cannot  learn  ?" 

"  Their  own  fault,"  answered  Summerman. 
"  They've  got  to  learn  more  than  the  notes.  So 
they  complain.  You  can't  make  a  singer  out  of  a 
note-book.  I've  tried  that  enough.  ~Now  I  try  to 
show  them  that  peace  means  a  riddance  of  selfish- 


6T 

ness,  and  that  selfishness  is  the  devil's  device  for 
holding  the  world  together.  Not  God's ;  for  his 
idea  is  love,  and  was  in  the  beginning.  "Wasn't 
the  world  given  to  understand,  that  the  life  which 
was  born  was  the  love,  truth,  and  beauty  of  the 
world,  and  that  by  Him  all  truth  and  beauty  must 
live  ?  They  can't  see  it.  I  can't  make  a  man  or 
woman  understand  that  an  idea  must  be  the  centre 
around  which  the  life  will  revolve.  They  come  to 
practise,  not  to  hear  preaching,  they  say." 

It  seemed  as  if  at  this,  and  because  of  this 
announcement,  Redman  Hush  drew  himself  apart 
and  up,  loftily,  and  with  a  gloomy  defiance  looked 
around  him.  "When  Summerman's  eyes  turned 
toward  him,  he  seemed  gazing  into  distance,  and 
gave  no  indication  that  he  had  heard  a  w^ord  of 
what  had  been  said.  The  organist  was  disap- 
pointed. He  had  hoped  again  for  criticism ;  but 
he  went  on,  perhaps  with  some  suspicion  of  the 
correctness  of  his  convictions — at  least  he  had  not 
said  all  he  wished  to  say. 

"  We  must  have  a  centre — an  idea,"  said  he. 
"  And  if  that  be  self,  then  the  devil's  to  pay. 
Christ  is  the  only  absolute  idea — the  only  possible 
giver  of  peace,  therefore.  I  mean  by  Him,  His 
doctrine.  He  stands  for  that,  "being  Truth,  aa  he 
said,  you  know.  They  came  out  better  on  the 


68  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

'  good  will  to  men,'  if  you  noticed.  It  was  easier 
for  them  to  believe  in  the  eternal  good  will  of  God, 
this  morning.  But  they  failed  in  the  next  line, 
'We  bless  Thee,  we  give  thanks  to  Thee,  for  Thy 
great  glory !'  If  they  knew  more  they  w^ould  sing 
better.  You  know  what  was  said,  sir,  'Milton 
himself  could  not  teach  a  boy  more  than  he  could 
learn.'  That's  the  amount  of  it." 

Now  and  then,  during  these  last  words,  spoken  so 
evidently  by  a  man  who  liked  to  talk  because  he 
looked  for  sympathy,  and  hoped  for  it,  the  face 
of  the  stranger  had  changed  in  its  expression ;  there 
seemed  to  be  less  fierceness,  more  sadness  in  his 
gloom.  But  the  change  was  so  slight  as  to  be 
hardly  perceptible,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Summer- 
man.  When  he  paused  in  speaking  he  had  still  no 
answer. 

They  walked  on  a  few  paces  in  silence,  when 
suddenly  the  organist  stepped  up  to  the  door  of  a 
house  that  opened  on  the  sidewalk,  and  unlocked  it. 

"This  is  my  shop,"  said  he;  "won't  you  come  in, 
and  warm  yourself?  it  is  so  cold  in  spite  of  the 
sun." 

Redman  Hush  hesitated,  with  his  foot  upon  the 
doorstep.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  It 
was  beautiful  and  bright  without,  but,  oh,  how  bare 
and  cold !  homely  enough  within,  but  the  glare  of 


THE   PKINCE  AT  LAND'S   END.  69 

a  hot  coal  fire  suggested  comfort,  as  the  skylight 
did  cheerfulness.  Did  he  really  wish  for  warmth 
and  comfort,  for  cheerfulness  and  company  ?  That 
was  the  point. 

"  Come  in,  I  will  show  you  something,"  said 
Summerman. 

"He  invites  me  as  if  I  were  another  boy  like 
himself,"  thought  the  man.  Perhaps  for  the  sake 
of  that  unimaginable  boyhood  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  and  allowed  Summerman  to  close  the 
door  behind  him. 

This  room  was  the  organist's  home.  His  house- 
hold gods  were  all  around  him  when  he  stepped 
into  the  shop.  It  was  a  little  place,  but  so  well 
arranged,  that  there  seemed  room,  and  to  spare. 
Summerman  was  hospitable  as  a  prince — the  shade 
of  Yoltaire  reminds  me  of  the  great  Frederick's 
hospitality  !  yet,  let  the  word  stand. 

This  shop  gave  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the 
versatility  of  its  owner's  mind.  The  front  part  was 
devoted  to  the  clock  and  watch  making  business ; 
before  the  large  window  stood  a  table,  where  the 
requisite  tools  were  kept  for  conduct  of  that  busi- 
ness. A  few  clocks,  and  frames  of  clocks,  gathered 
probably  from  auction  rooms,  were  ranged  upon  a 
shelf,  and  dust  was  never  allowed  to  accumulate 
around  or  upon  them.  Never  was  housemaid 


TO  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

more  exact  and  scrupulous  than  the  proprietor  of 
this  Gallery. 

In  the  back  part  of  the  shop,  which  was  lighted 
by  the  skylight,  stood  the  instrument  for  daguerreo- 
typing,  possession  of  which  would  have  made  the 
organist  a  proud  man,  if  anything  could  have 
done-  so. 

When  he  had  invited  Mr.  Eush  to  sit  down,  and 
the  invitation  was  accepted,  it  was  by  a  device  of 
Summerman's  that  the  gentleman  found  himself 
directly  facing  the  machine,  and  now,  if  he  took  an 
interest  in  any  earthly  thing,  or  was  capable  of 
curiosity,  some  good  would  come  of  it,  thought  the 
organist. 

He  had  promised  to  show  his  visitor  somewhat, 
and  accordingly  approached  him  with  a  miniature 
case  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Hush  had  removed  his  fur  cap,  and  Summer- 
man  approaching  him,  was  so  struck  by  his  appear- 
ance, the  dignity,  and  pride,  and  trouble  his 
countenance  expressed,  that  he  nearly  exclaimed  in 
his  surprise,  and  quite  forgot  the  intention  he  had, 
till  Mr.  Rush  reminded  him  by  extending  his  hand 
for  the  picture. 

"  This  is  little  Mary,"  exclaimed  he,  presenting 
the  miniature.  "  I  took  it  last  summer.  She  died 
in  October.  Maybe  you  will  understand  now  why 


THE  PRINCE  At  LAND'S  END.  71 

I  said  that  we  should  have  had  a  singer,  if  she  had 
lived." 

But  Summerman  was  in  doubt  about  this,  as, 
from  the  point  to  which  he  immediately  retired,  he 
cast  a  glance  at  the  face  of  the  stranger,  who  took 
the  picture,  and  surveyed  it,  with  such  a  look. 

At  first,  it  appeared  as  if  a  glance  would  suffice 
him.  But  he  did  not  return  it  with  a  glance. 
"Was  it  the  brightness  and  innocence  of  the  young 
face  that  won  upon  him,  or  did  it  for  the  moment 
take  its  place  as  the  type  of  all  beauty  and  inno- 
cence, and  hold  him  to  contemplation,  as  for  the 
last  time.  Was  it  really  into  the  face  of  that  little 
child,  dead  and  buried  since  October,  that  he 
looked  ?  or  was  he  really  here,  under  the  roof  of 
this  poor  organist,  shut  up  with  the  warmth  of  his 
coal  stove  this  bright  Christmas  day,  locked  safe 
his  secret  thoughts,  himself  secure  with  them  ? 

At  last  some  word  or  sound  escaped  the  organist. 
He  had  gazed  at  Mr.  Rush  till  he  seemed  possessed 
of  nightmare.  So  wild,  so  haggard,  so  awful,  the 
man's  face  appeared  to  him,  that  the  cry,  an  invol- 
untary one,  expressed  better  than  any  inquiry  could 
have  done,  how  much  disturbed  he  was.  The  stran- 
ger heard,  and  seemed  to  understand,  for  at  the 
sound  he  rose  quickly,  and  laid  the  picture  on  the 
counter ;  not  gently  ;  at  the  same  time  he  looked  at 


GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Summerman  and  laughed ;  but  without  merri- 
ment. 

"  Come,"  said  Summerman  quickly,  "  let  me 
take  your  portrait.  I  have  quite  a  collection  here, 
you  Bee."  And  as  he  spoke  he  did  not  remove  his 
eyes  from  the  stranger — he  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  was  mad,  or  in  some  direful  strait 
that  made  him  almost  irresponsible,  and  his  first 
purpose  was  one  of  helpful  commiseration. 

Instead  of  quitting  the  shop  straightway,  as  Sum- 
merman  expected  he  would  do  when  he  made  this 
proposition  (and  if  he  did  depart  he  meant  to  fol- 
low), the  stranger  walked  toward  the  instrument, 
and  on  his  way  picked  up  the  picture  he  had  thrown 
down  with  so  little  ceremony.  He  seemed  to  think 
he  owed  this  courtesy : 

"  Do  you  find  much  patronage  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  considerable,"  replied  Summerman.  "  Just 
now  more  than  common.  Your  likeness  is  such  a 
good  present  to  make  your  friend !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  emphatic  response. 

"  You  ask  to  take  my  likeness — what  for  2" 

"  I  want  it  myself." 

"  Oh — for  a  sign.  Well,  young  man,  you  don't 
know  what  it's  the  sign  of,  after  all,"  and  here  Mr. 
Rush  evidently  set  himself  against  the  world. 


T3 

"  I  hope  it's  the  sign  of  a  friend,"  answered  Sum- 
merman,  who  was  keeping  up  his  spirits  by  an 
effort,  for  the  mere  presence  of  this  man  weighed  on 
them  with  an  almost  intolerable  weight.  Yet  he 
was  sparing  no  effort  to  retain  that  presence. 

"Why  do  you  hope  that?"  asked  Mr.  Kush  with 
a  disagreeable  show  of  authority. 

"  Because  we  met  at  the  church  door  on  Christ- 
mas day."  Simple  answer — yet  it  was  spoken  so 
gently,  so  truthfully,  it  seemed  to  make  an  impres- 
sion. 

"  Christmas  day.  So  it  is.  But  it's  getting  late. 
How  high  is  the  sun  yet  ?" 

"  Three  hours,  maybe." 

Hearing  this,  the  gentleman  turned  away,  and 
walked  to  the  further  extremity  of  the  shop.  Sum- 
merman's  eyes  followed  him  with  anxiety.  But  he 
went  on  polishing  a  plate,  and  seemed  beyond  all 
things  intent  on  that. 

Presently  Mr.  Kush  came  back. 

"  You  may  take  my  likeness,"  said  he.  "  You 
are  a  good  fellow.  And  it  will  help  pass  time." 

So  the  artist  stepped  quickly  about,  and  looked 
pleased,  but  not  too  much  so.  The  work  was  soon 
done.  While  Summerman  was  putting  it  through 
fche  process  of  perfection,  the  gentleman  stood  and 
watched  him. 

4 


74:  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

"  How  did  you  want  your  choir  to  sing  *  good 
will  to  men  ?'  "  lie  asked. 

Summerman  did  not  look  up  to  answer — did  not 
express  any  surprise,  but  the  whole  man  was  in  the 
reply  given  : 

"  From  the  heart,  sir.  Full,  confident,  assuring. 
They  owe  that  to  God  and  man,  or  they've  no  busi- 
ness in  a  choir." 

"  Do  you  suppose  they  could  do  it  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Rush,  not  immediately,  but,  as  it  seemed,  when  he 
had  controlled  the  unpleasant  influence  the  speaker's 
enthusiastic  mode  of  address  had  upon  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  not  merely  speaking,  and 
engaging  the  organist  in  speech  for  pastime — but 
rather  because  he  could  not  help  it.  His  questions, 
when  he  asked  them,  had  a  more  surprising  sound 
to  himself  than  to  the  person  who  answered.  And 
they  vexed  him — but  not  Summerman.  "When  Mr. 
Kush  asked  him  if  he  supposed  it  possible  for  them 
to  sing  in  the  way  signified,  he  replied  quite  confi- 
dently : 

"  Yes,  if  they  only  knew  what  they  were  about." 

"  But  you  explained  that  to  them  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  yes,  if  they  believed  it ;  for  after 
all,  belief  is  of  the  heart." 

"  You  don't  think  they  believe  it  ?" 

"  It's  a  hard  thing  to  say.     But  if  they  did,  they 


THE  PKINCE  AT  LANT)'s  END.  75 

would  do  better.  They  are  not  a  happy  set  alto- 
gether. They  whine — they  talk  one  thing,  and  live 
another.  One  of  them  lost  a  little  money  the  other 
day — pretty  nearly  all  he  had,  I  suppose — but  what 
of  that?" 

"  What  of  that !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Eush,  and  he 
looked  at  the  organist  amazed. 

"  Yes,  what  of  it  ?  The  man  has  his  health  and 
his  faculties.  "What's  money  ?" 

«  What's  money !". 

"  Yes,  sir,  when  you  come  to  the  point— what  is 
it?  Eyes,  hands,  feet — blood,  brain,  heart,  soul? 
You  would  think  so  to  hear  him  talk.  It's  dust ! 
I've  seen  that  proved,  sir,  and  I  know  'tis  true  1" 

"You  don't  allow  for  circumstances,"  said  the 
stranger,  sharply. 

"  Circumstances !"  repeated  Summerman,  incredu- 
lous. 

"Yes,  the  difference  between  your  affairs  and 
those  of  your  neighbors.  You  seem  to  judge  others 
by  yourself?" 

"  My  affairs !  I  haven't  any  to  speak  of,"  said 
the  organist,  with  a  grave  sort  of  wonder. 

"  I  suppose,"  replied  the  stranger,  almost  angrily, 
you  are  a  human  creature  ;  things  happen  to  you, 
and  they  do  not.  If  you  have  any  feeling  at  all 
you  are  affected  by  what  happens."  He  ceased 


GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 


speaking  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who  is  annoyed 
that  he  should  have  been  so  far  beguiled  into 
speech. 

"  Some  things  have  happened  to  me,"  answered 
Summerman  quietly,  seeing  everything,  pretending 
to  see  nothing.  "  I  lived  ten  years  among  the  Gip- 
sies. I  belonged  to  them.  That's  where  I  had  my 
schooling.  I  worked  in  the  tin  ware;  and  clock 
mending  I  took  up  of  myself.  I  left  my  people 
on  account  of  a  church-organ.  My  father  and 
mother  were  dead.  I  had  no  brother  or  sister ;  nor 
any  relation.  But  I  had  friends,  and  they  would 
have  kept  me ;  but  I  had  to  choose  between  them 
and  the  rest.  I  couldn't  learn  the  organ  in  the 
woods  and  meadows  ;  I  was  caught  by  the  music  as 
easily  as  a  pink  by  a  pin.  But  I  kept  to  the  clock 
mending.  I  used  to  travel  about  on  my  business 
once  in  a  while,  for  a  man  can't  settle  down  to  four 
walls  and  a  tread-mill  in  a  minute,  when  he's  been 
used  to  all  creation.  Then  I  learned  to  take  pic- 
tures, and  I  travelled  about  for  a  time,  carrying  the 
machine  with  me.  But  for  the  last  year  I've  lived 
in  this  shop  and  had  the  church  organ.  So  you  see 
how  it  is.  I  have  all  these  things  to  look  after,  and 
I  try  to  keep  in  tune,  and  up  to  pitch. 

"  You  are  a  happy  man,"  said  Mr.  Rush,  who 
had  listened  with  attention  to  this  humble  story. 


THE   PRINCE   AT   LAND'S   END.  77 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  you  could  not  understand — for 
you  have  had  no  cares,  no  one  dependent  on  you — 
how  necessary  to  some  persons  money  is  for  happi- 
ness. "What  ruin  follows  the  loss  of  it.  How 
many  a  man  would  prefer  death  to  such  a  loss." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Summerman,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  1  believe  in  the  Good  Will  doctrine." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  asked  the 
stranger,  impatiently. 

To  this  Summerman  replied,  speaking  slowly 
— -humblest  acquiescence  sounding  through  his 
speech. 

"  When  I  settled  down,  and  got  the  situation  in 

the  church,  I  was  about  to  bring  her  here 

You  understand She  died  about  that  time. 

I  have  not  seen  her  picture.  Her  brother  had  died 
before.  I  was  to  be  the  son  of  the  old  people.  We 
were  sure  that  after  awhile  they  would  be  attracted 
by  our  happy  home,  and  by  our  fireside  all  their 
wanderings  would  end.  They  should  be  free  as  in 

the  forests It  is  all  changed  now — but  I  am 

still  their  son,  and  I  wish  nothing  better  than  to 
work  for  them.  The  old  man  is  failing,  and  I 
think  that  I  shall  yet  persuade  them  to  come  and 
live  with  me — we  might  be  one  family  still — and  it 
would  please  her.  If  I  succeed,  there  are  two  or 
three  rooms  close  by  where  we  can  be  tolerably 


Y8  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

happy,  all  together.  God  is  not  indifferent.  He 
sees  all.  And  sure  I  am  that  He  bears  me  no 
ill  will.  So  it  must  be  for  the  best.  She  used  to 
wear  this  ribbon  around  her  splendid  hair.  She 
was  so  young  and  gay !  It  would  have  done 
you  good  to  look  at  such  a  face.  Sometimes  1 
catch  myself  thinking  what  a  long,  gay  life  we 
ought  to  have  lived  together — and  I  know  there's 
no  wickedness  in  that.  It's  more  pleasant  than 
bitter." 

"  So  you  support  the  old  people,"  was  the  listen- 
er's sole  comment.  Not  loss,  but  fidelity — not 
grief,  but  constancy,  impressed  him  while  he 
hearkened  to  this  story. 

"  I  have  adopted  them,"  answered  the  organist. 
"  Yes,  they  are  mine  now.  Just  as  they  were  to 
have  been.  Just  as  she  and  I  used  to  talk  it  over. 
Only  she  is  not  here." 

"So  you  support  them,"  repeated  Mr.  Kush. 
And  he  seemed  to  ponder  that  point,  as  if  it 
involved  somewhat  beyond  his  comprehension. 

The  organist  replied,  wondering.  And  he  looked 
at  the  questioner — but  the  questioner  looked  not  at 
him. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  they  are  moderate  in  their  wants. 
They  don't  require  suites  of  chambers  with  frescoed 


79 

ceilings,  and  walls  hung  with,  white  satin,  rose 
color,  lavender — and  the  rest.  They  don't  need  a 
four-story  palace,  with  carpets  of  velvet  to  cover 
the  floors  from  attic  to  basement.  Do  they  ?"  All 
the  scorn  and  bitterness  expressed  in  these  words 
the  organist  happily  could  never  perceive.  But  he 
discerned  enough  to  make  him  shudder,  and  he 
believed  that  the  speaker  was  mad. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  he  answered, 
perplexed  and  cautious.  He  feared  the  effect  of 
his  words.  But  anything  that  he  might  say  would 
produce  now  one  sole  result. 

"  Yery  likely  you  don't  understand,"  said  Mr. 
Eush. 

"  But,"  said  the  organist,  "  I  wish  I  did." 

«  Why,  man  ?" 

"  You  look  so  troubled,  sir." 

"Troubled?" 

"As  if  you — hadn't — tired  out  the  Good  "Will 
doctrine.  I  mean — yes,  I  do!  that  I  shouldn't 
suppose  you  believed  in  it,"  said  Summerman, 
bravely. 

Mr.  Rush  laughed  bitterly.  "I'll  tell  you  a 
story,"  said  he. 

"  No — no — I  mean  not  yet — don't,"  exclaimed 
Summerman,  quickly. 

"Why,  it's  a  short  tale.     I'm    not    going   to 


80  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

trouble  you  much  longer.  A  fine  holiday  you're 
having !  But  you'll  never  have  another  like  it, 
I  believe.  I — I  want  your  advice  before  I  go. 
Besides,  you  have  kept  to  your  green,  sunny  love  so 
long,  I  would  like  to  give  you  a  notion  of  what's 
going  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence/' 

"  Then  we  will  walk,"  said  Summerman,  "  if  it's 
agreeable  to  you,  sir,  I  mean,  of  course.  I  always 
walk  around  the  lake  at  this  hour."  The  little 
man  had  put  on  his  overcoat  while  he  spoke,  and 
now  stood  waiting  the  stranger's  pleasure,  cap  in 
hand. 

"  Dare  you  leave  that  face  of  mine  among  the 
other  faces  ?"  asked  Mr.  Rush,  with  all  seriousness. 

The  organist  looked  nervously  around  as  if  he 
expected  something  to  justify  the  trouble  this 
question  occasioned  him. 

"  Yes — yes — I'll  take  the  risk,"  he  answered,  but 
he  spoke  without  a  smile.  One  thought  alone  pre- 
vented him  from  heartily  wishing  himself  rid  of 
this  companion,  who,  in  spite  of  him,  had  cast  such 
a  gloom  over  his  Christmas  day.  The  man  seemed 
to  have  more  need  of  him  than  Summerman  had  of 
his  dinner  deferred. 

They  set  out  together  to  walk  through  the  frosty 
air  under  the  cloudless  sky.  The  sun  was  near 
to  setting.  In  half  an  hour  a  deep  orange  belt 


THE  PRINCE  AT  LAND?S  END.  81 

would  unroll  round  the  east,  flaming  signs  would 
mark  the  heavens,  and  a  great  star  hang  in  the 
midst  of  an  amethyst  hemicycle. 

They  noticed  that  the  sun  was  near  to  setting, 
and  one  of  them  saw  the  glory. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  honestly,"  said  the  other. 
"  You  have  taken  my  picture  ;  what  do  you  think 
it  looks  like  ?  That  is  a  fair  question." 

"  Like  misery,"  replied  Summerman,  promptly 
enough. 

"Is  that  all?  I  thought  worse.  I  thought  it 
looked  like  a  very  devil's  face.  When  I  go  back, 
I'll  destroy  it.  But,  then,  it  looks  like  me !  Now, 
I  can't  afford  to  live  a  scarecrow.  I  believe  I 
wasn't  made  to  frighten  others  to  death.  I'd  choose 
to  die  myself  first."  He  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
whisper.  "  I've  been  trying  to  do  that.  Tried 
twice.  Is  there  any  particular  luck  in  a  third  time, 
that  you  know  of?" 

Summerman  did  not  answer,  though  Rush  was 
looking  full  upon  him;  neither  did  he  avoid  the 
long  and  piercing  gaze  the  stranger  fixed  upon  him. 
He  met  that  like  a  man. 

"  You  think  I'm  mad,"  at  last  said  Mr.  Rush. 

"  Not  exactly." 

"Thank  you.  But  you  are  "a  gipsy.  Read 
my  fortune." 

4* 


82  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Gravely  Summerman  looked  at  the  fair,  smooth 
palm  that  was  suddenly  stretched  before  him. 

"  You  have  been  unfortunate,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  you  mustn't  admit  that.  Only  a  little 
money  lost,  that's  all." 

"  Is  it  all,  indeed  ?"  asked  Summerman,  and  he 
dropped  the  palm.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  "  I 
do  not  think  it  could  have  served  you  so.  A  little 
loss !"  said  he. 

"  That  is  because  fortune  never  made  a  fool  of 
you.  Let  me  alone  ;  I  want  to  think."  He  spoke 
in  the  quick,  peremptory  manner  of  a  man  who  is 
accustomed  to  command ;  but  he  came  very  near 
to  smiling  the  next  moment,  as  he  looked  down 
at  the  little  person  whom  he  had  ordered  into 
silence. 

Then  he  broke  the  silence  he  had  enjoined. 

"  Suppose  you  were  in  my  case,"  said  he,  "  how 
would  you  act  ?" 

"  I  am  not.  How  can  I  tell  ?"  was  Summerman's 
prudent  answer. 

These  words,  as  indeed  any  words  that  he  could 
have  spoken,  were  the  best  that  Redman  Hush 
could  hear ;  for  now  he  was  leaning  with  the  whole 
weight  of  his  moral  nature  on  the  life  of  this 
strong-hearted,  true-hearted  organist.  He  liked  the 
uupresuming,  modest,  generous  word. 


83 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  would  be,"  said  he, 
quickly.  "  A  month  ago  worth  half  a  million — 
to-day  not  a  cent.  Brought  up  like  a  fool,  you 
would  probably  be  one.  Turned  out  of  house, 
helpless  as  a  baby.  You  have  yourself — master  of 
your  wits  and  your  hands.  Look  at  these  hands  ! 
And  all  my  wits  can  advise  me  is,  this  life  isn't 
worth  the  keeping." 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  to-day !  They  don't  say  that 
to-day !"  exclaimed  Summerman,  speaking  as  if  he 
knew.  And  he  ventured  further,  boldly:  "They 
advise  you,  go  home  to  your  wife  and  your  child  ; 
live  for  them  and  yourself,  and  God's  honor." 

"  "Wife — child !"  repeated  Rush ;  and  he  blushed 
when  he  added ;  "  you  read  fortunes.  Your 
pardon." 

"I  saw  it  in  your  face,"  said  the  organist, 
quietly.  "  When  you  looked  at  our  little  Mary,  I 
believed  you  were  thinking  of  some  other  little 
child.  And  it  reminded  you  of  some  other  young 
lady,  when  I  told  you  what  I  expected  once.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  them,  you  would  never  have 
thought  of  destroying  yourself;  and  I'm  sure,  on 
their  account,  what  you  ought  to  ask  and  hope  is, 
that  your  life  may  be  spared." 

It  is  said  that  drowning  men  will  grasp  at  straws. 
This  elegant  stranger,  who  had  emerged  from  mys- 


34:  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

tery  to  disturb  the  Christmas  day  of  a  humble 
organist,  now  leaned  on  the  friendly  arm  of  the  little 
man,  walking  along  with  him,  not  as  he  once  saun- 
tered through  the  promenade,  a  butterfly  disdaining 
all  but  the  brightest  of  sunbeams,  the  sweetest  of 
flowers.  Poor  worm !  he  was  half  frozen  in  this 
wintry  brightness,  this  exhilarating  atmosphere,  in 
which  Summerman  throve  so  well. 

"  Are  all  the  men  that  are  born  in  woods  and 
meadows,  and  brought  up  tinkers,  like  you?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  answered  Summerman.  "  Some  turn  out 
fools,  and  some  knaves,  and  some  ten  times  better 
men  and  wiser  men,  than  I  shall  ever  be." 

"  Like  the  rest  of  the  world.  Are  men,  men 
everywhere  ?" 

"  Pretty  much.  You  talk  about  your  wits. 
You  were  made  to  do  a  bigger  business  than  I  shall 
ever  do.  Go  home  and  begin  it.  Pve  a  mind  to 
go  with  you,  so  you  shan't  lose  your  way." 

"  You  know  the  way  so  well,"  said  Rush.  He 
had  not  before  spoken  as  he  now  spoke,  almost 
cheerfully,  almost  hopefully.  Here  was  this  fellow 
that  told  fortunes,  daring  to  prophesy  good  days  for 
him !  But  then,  was  he  not  a  bankrupt  ?  And  if 
ho  lived — a  beggar  still  ? 


THE   PRINCE  AT   LAND?S   END.  85 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  faces  of  the  two  men 
were  again  turned  to  the  village.  They  had  walked 
quite  round  the  lake,  and  Summerman  had  con- 
cluded that  he  would  invite  the  gentleman  to  dine 
with  him  when  they  came  back  to  the  inn  ;  would 
he  accept  the  courtesy?  Summerman  looked  at 
Mr.  Hush,  that  he  might  ascertain  the  probabilities, 
and  thought  that  he  could  see  a  breaking  of  the 
black  clouds  which  held  this  man  a  prisoner.  He 
wanted  to  preach  to  him.  He  wanted  exceedingly 
to  launch  out  again  on  the  Good  Will  doctrine ; 
and  at  length  he  did,  but  not  exactly  in  the 
manner  he  would  have  chosen,  had  he  been  left  to 
himself. 

As  they  walked  along  in  silence,  suddenly  came 
and  met  them  the  sound  of  a  quick  clanging  church 
bell ;  then  rose  a  mighty  cry,  and  a  still  more  potent 
flame  ascending  heavenward. 

"  It's  a  fire !"  cried  Summerman.  And,  true  to 
his  living  impulse  and  instinct,  which  was  forever — 
first  and  last,  and  ever — the  good  of  the  public,  the 
little  man  set  off  on  a  run.  His  companion,  the 
gentleman  who  had  never,  in  his  thirty  years,  run 
to  a  fire,  with  generous  intent,  followed  on  as 
fleetly.  So  they  came  together  to  the  village 
street,  when,  lo  !  the  shop  of  Daniel  Summerman, 
was  making  all  this  stir !  drawing  such  crowds 


86  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

about  it  as  never  before  the  artist's  varied  powers 
had  done. 

There  was  neither  door  nor  roof,  wall  or  window, 
visible,  but  a  pit  of  flame,  and  within,  as  every- 
body knew,  the  entire  stock,  sum  total  of  the 
organist's  worldly  goods. 

"  "Well !  well !"  said  he,  as,  panting,  he  came  to 
a  stand-still  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  his  compa- 
nion close  beside  him. 

"  Curse  God,  and  die  I"  was  all  that  the  wife  of 
Job  could  think  to  say  to  him,  in  his  extremity. 

"  Well !  well !"  was  the  comment  Redman  Rush 
could  make  on  this  disaster,  repeating  Summer- 
man's  words  with  an  emphasis  not  all  his  own.  It 
was  evident  that,  for  a  moment  at  least,  he  had 
forgotten  himself;  his  face  was  no  longer  dark  with 
misery,  but  full  of  consternation,  alive  with  sym- 
pathy. And  still  he  said : 

"  "Where's  your  Good  Will  doctrine,  though  ?" 

"  Safe !"  cried  the  organist,  and  he  crossed  his 
arms  on  his  breast  with  a  look  of  perfect  triumph. 

"  You  eat  your  words  with  a  vengeance.  You 
preach  the  best  sermon  I  ever  heard,  I  swear," 
said  Mr.  Rush,  looking  at  him  with  amazement. 

"  Humph !"  ejaculated  Summerman. 

u  I  believe,  after  all,  'twas  my  cursed  picture 
that  did  it,"  continued  Rush.  He  was  not  able  to 


8T 

stand  there  in  silence  listening  to  the  roaring  of  the 
fire,  by  the  side  of  the  man  whose  property  was 
being  destroyed  in  this  relentless  manner.  He 
must  talk  ;  and  no  one  hindered  him,  for  the  most 
of  the  working  force  of  the  village  was  busy  trying 
to  draw  water  from  the  frozen  pumps  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

"  I  might  have  known  such  a  face  would  raise 
the  devil,"  muttered  he. 

"  Then,  they  are  both  done  for !"  was  Summer- 
man's  quick  answer.  "  If  you  are  burnt  to  death, 
it's  clear  you  can't  be  drowned.  So,  it  seems 
you're  a  new  man  altogether.  Sir,  your  wife  calls 
you!  But,  before  you  go,  pray,  take  the  Good 
Will  doctrine  in.  A  present  from  me,  if  you 
please." 

Having  said  these  words,  the  organist  wiped  his 
eyes,  and  laughed. 

"  If  this  is  a  dream,"  said  Redman  Rush,  aston- 
ished into  doubt  of  all  he  saw  and  heard,  "  let  me 
get  home  before  I  wake  up,  for  God's  sake."  And  he 
turned  away  from  the  organist,  and  was  hid  in  the 
crowd  from  the  eyes  that  followed  him. 

He  turned  away,  but  would  he  ever  lose  the 
memory  of  a  soft  voice,  saying : 

"  Mr.  Summerman,  my  boys  and  I  insist  on  your 
coming  to  spend  the  holidays  with  us." 


88  GIFTS    OF    GENIUS. 

Or,  of  a  grey-haired  gentleman's  aspect,  who 
came  hurrying  through  the  crowd  till  he  stood  face 
to  face  with  the  little  organist,  whose  hands  he 
grasped  as  he  said : 

"Never  mind,  lad;  never  mind.  You'll  be  a 
richer  man  before  night  than  you  ever  were  before. 
Here  is  a  year's  salary  in  advance,  from  the  church, 
sir.  You  understand.  And  we  all  want  our 
daguerreotypes ;  so  order  an  instrument." 

Or,  of  an  agitated  voice,  that  followed  him  like 
the  voice  of  a  spirit,  mysterious  and  persuasive : 

"  Oh,  believe  in  the  Good  Will  Doctrine !" 


SEA-WEED. 

BY   JAMES   EUSSELL  LOWELL. 

NOT  always  unimpeded  can  I  pray, 

Nor,  pitying  saint,  thine  intercession  claim; 

Too  closely  clings  the  burden  of  the  day, 

And  all  the  mint  and  anise  that  I  pay 

But  swells  my  debt  and  deepens  my  self-blame. 

Shall  I  less  patience  have  than  Thou,  who  know 
That  Thou  revisit'st  all  who  wait  for  Thee, 
Nor  only  fill'st  the  unsounded  depths  below 
But  dost  refresh  with  measured  overflow 
The  rifts  where  unregarded  mosses  be  ? 

The  drooping  sea-weed  hears,  in  night  abyssed, 
Far  and  more  far  the  waves'  receding  shocks, 
Nor  doubts,  through  all  the  darkness  and  the  mist 
That  the  pale  shepherdess  will  keep  her  tryst, 
And  shoreward  lead  once  more  her  foam-fleeced 
flocks. 

CO 


90  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

For  the  same  wave  that  laps  the  Carib  shore 
With  momentary  curves  of  pearl  and  gold, 
Goes  hurrying  thence  to  gladden  with  its  roar 
The  lorn  shells  camped  on  rocks  of  Labrador, 
By  love  divine  on  that  glad  errand  rolled. 

And,  though  Thy  healing  waters  far  withdraw, 
I,  too,  can  wait  and  feed  on  hopes  of  Thee, 
And  of  the  dear  recurrence  of  thy  Law, 
Sure  that  the  parting  grace  which  morning  saw, 
Abides  its  time  to  come  in  search  of  me. 


TKEFOIL. 

BY  EVEET  A.   DTJTCKINOK:. 

"  HOPE,  by  the  ancients,  was  drawn  in  the  form  of  a  sweet  and 
beautiful  child,  standing  upon  tiptoes,  and  a  trefoil  or  three-leaved 
grass  in  her  hand." 

Citation  from  old  Peacham  in  Dr.  Johnsorts  Dictionary* 

THREE  names,  clustered  together  in  more  than 
one  marked  association,  have  a  pleasant  fragrance 
in  English  literature.  A  triple-leaved  clover  in  a 
field  thickly  studded  with  floral  beauties,  the 
modest  merits  of  HERBERT,  YATJGHAN  and  CKASHAW 

"  Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust " — 

endeared  to  us  not  merely  by  the  claim  of  intel- 
lect, but  by  the  warmer  appeal  to  the  heart,  of 
kindred  sympathy  and  suffering.  True  poets,  they 
have  placed  in  their  spiritual  alembic  the  common 
woes  and  sorrows  of  life,  and  extracted  from  them 
"  by  force  of  their  so  potent  art,"  a  cordial  for  the 
race. 

91 


92  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Has  it  ever  occurred  to  the  reader  to  reflect  how 
much  the  world  owes  to  the  poets  in  the  allevia- 
tion of  sorrow  ?  It  is  much  to  hear  the  simple  voice 
of  sympathy  in  its  plainest  /^Iterances  from  the 
companions  around  us ;  it  is  something  to  listen  to 
the  same  burden  from  the  good  of  former  genera- 
tions, as  the  universal  experience  of  humanity ;  but 
we  owe  the  greatest  debt  to  those  who  by  the 
graces  of  intellect  and  the  pains  of  a  profounder 
passion,  have  triumphed  over  affliction,  and  given 
eloquence  to  sorrow. 

There  is  a  common  phrase,  which  some  poet  must 
first  have  invented — "  the  luxury  of  woe."  Poets 
certainly  have  found  their  most  constant  themes  in 
suffering.  When  the  late  Edgar  Poe,  who  prided 
himself  on  reducing  literature  to  an  art,  sat  down  to 
write  a  poem  which  should  attain  the  height  of 
popularity,  he  said  sorrow  must  be  its  theme,  and 
wrote  "  The  Haven."  Tragedy  will  always  have  a 
deeper  hold  upon  the  public  than  comedy;  it 
appeals  to  deeper  principles,  stirs  more  powerful 
emotions,  imparts  an  assured  sense  of  strength,  is 
more  intimate  with  our  nature,  or  certainly  it 
would  not  be  tolerated.  There  is  no  delight  in  the 
exhibition  of  misery  as  such,  it  is  only  painful  and 
repulsive;  we  discard  all  vulgar  horrors  utterly, 
and  keep  no  place  for  them  in  the  mind.  Let, 


TREFOIL.  93 

however,  a  poet  touch  the  string,  and  there  is 
another  response  when  he  brings  before  us  pictures 
of  regal  grief,  and  gives  grandeur  to  humiliation 
and  penalty.  !Nbr  is  it  only  in  the  higher  walks  of 
tragedy,  with  its  pomp  and  circumstances  of  action, 
that  the  poet  here  serves  us.  His  humbler  min- 
strelsy has  soothed  many  an  English  heart  from  the 
tale  of  "  Lycidas  "  to  the  elegiac  verse  of  Tennyson. 
George  Herbert  still  speaks  to  this  generation  as 
two  centuries  ago  he  spoke  to  his  own.  His  quaint 
verses  gather  new  beauties  from  time  as  they  come 
to  us  redolent  with  the  prayers  and  aspirations  of 
many  successions  of  the  wives,  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters of  England  and  America ;  bedewed  with  the 
tears  of  orphans  and  parents;  an  incitement  to 
youth,  a  solace  to  age,  a  consolation  for  humanity 
to  all  time. 

These  have  been  costly  gifts  to  our  benefactors. 
"  I  honor,"  says  Yaughan,  "  that  temper  which  can 
lay  by  the  garland  when  he  might  keep  it  on ; 
which  can  pass  by  a  rosebud  and  bid  it  grow  when 
he  is  invited  to  crop  it."  This  is  the  spirit  of  self- 
devotion  in  every  worthy  action,  and  especially  of 
the  pains  and  penalties  by  which  poets  have 
enriched  our  daily  life.  We  are  indebted  to  the 
poets,  too,  for  something  more  than  the  alleviation 
of  sorrow.  Perhaps  it  is,  upon  the  whole,  a  rarer 


94:  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

gift  to  improve  prosperity.  Joy,  commonly,  is  less 
of  a  positive  feeling  than  grief,  and  is  more  apt  to 
slip  by  us  unconsciously.  Few  people,  says  the 
proverb,  know  when  they  are  well  off.  It  is  the 
poet's  vocation  to  teach  the  world  this — 

"  to  be  possess'd  with  double  pomp, 

To  guard  a  title  that  was  rich  before, 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet." 

The  poet  lifts  our  eyes  to  the  beauties  of  external 
nature,  educates  us  to  a  keener  participation  in  the 
sweet  joys  of  affection,  to  the  loveliness  and  grace 
of  woman,  to  the  honor  and  strength  of  manhood. 
His  ideal  world  thus  becomes  an  actual  one,  as  the 
creations  of  imagination  first  borrowed  from  sense, 
alight  from  the  book,  the  picture  or  the  statue  once 
again  to  live  and  walk  among  us. 

The  resemblances  which  have  induced  us  to 
bring  together  our  sacred  triumvirate  of  poets,  are 
the  common  period  in  which  they  lived,  their 
similar  training  in  youth,  a  congenial  bond  of  learn- 
ing, a  certain  generous  family  condition,  the  inspi- 
ration of  the  old  mother  church  out  of  which  they 
sprung,  the  familiar  discipline  of  sorrow,  the  early 
years  in  which  they  severally  wrote. 

A  brief  glance  at  their  respective  lives  may  indi- 


TREFOIL.  05 

cate  still  further  these  similarities  and  point  a 
moral  which  needs  not  many  words  to  express — 
which  seems  to  us  almost  too  sacred  to  be  loudly 
or  long  dwelt  upon. 

HEEBEBT  was  the  oldest  of  the  band,  having  been 
born  near  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  the 
days  of  James,  who  was  an  intelligent  patron  of  the 
family.  The  poet's  brother,  the  learned  Lord  Her- 
bert of  Cherbury,  whose  "  Autobiography  "  breathes 
the  fresh  manly  spirit  of  the  best  days  of  chivalry, 
was  the  king's  ambassador  to  France.  George  Her- 
bert, too,  was  in  a  fair  way  to  this  court  patronage, 
when  his  hopes  were  checked  by  the  death  of  the 
monarch.  It  is  a  circumstance,  this  court  favor, 
worth  considering  in  the  poet's  life,  as  the  antece- 
dent to  his  manifold  spirit  of  piety.  Nothing  is 
more  noticeable  than  the  wide,  liberal  culture  of 
the  old  English  poets ;  they  were  first,  men,  often 
skilled  in  affairs,  with  ample  experience  in  life,  and 
then — poets. 

Herbert's  education  was  all  that  care  and  aifec- 
tion  could  devise.  "He  spent,"  says  his  amiable 
biographer,  Izaak  Walton,  "  much  of  his  childhood 
in  a  sweet  content  under  the  eye  and  care  of  his 
prudent  mother,  and  the  tuition  of  a  chaplain  or 
tutor  to  him  and  two  of  his  brothers  in  her  own 


96  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

family."  At  Cambridge  he  became  orator  to  the 
University,  gained  the  applause  of  the  court  by  his 
Latin  orations,  and  what  is  more,  secured  the  friend- 
ship of  such  men  as  Bishop  Andrews,  Dr.  Donne, 
and  the  model  diplomatist  of  his  age,  Sir  Henry 
Wotton.  The  completion  of  his  studies  and  the 
failure  of  court  expectations  were  followed  by  a 
passage  of  rural  retirement — a  first  pause  of  the 
soul  previous  to  the  deeper  conflicts  of  life.  His 
solitariness  was  increased  by  sickness,  a  period  of 
meditation  and  devotional  feeling,  assisted  by  the 
intimations  of  a  keen  spirit  in  a  feeble  body — and 
out  of  the  furnace  came  forth  Herbert  the  priest 
and  saint.  All  that  knowledge  can  inspire,  all  that 
tenderness  can  endear,  centres  about  that  picture  of 
the  beauty  of  holiness,  his  brief  pastoral  career — as 
we  read  it  in  his  prose  writings  and  his  poems,  and 
the  pages  of  Walton — at  the  little  village  of  Bemer- 
ton.  He  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine — his  gentle 
spirit  spared  the  approaching  conflicts  of  his  country, 
which  pressed  so  heavily  upon  the  Church  which  he 
loved. 

The  poems  of  Herbert  are  now  read  throughout 
the  world  ;  no  longer  confined  to  that  Church  which 
inspired  them.  They  are  echoed  at  times  in  the 
pulpits  of  all  denominations,  while  their  practical 
lines  are,  if  we  remember  rightly,  scattered  among 


TREFOIL.  97 

the  sage  aphorisms  of  Poor  Richard,  and  their  wide 
philosophy  commends  itself  to  the  genius  of 
Emerson. 

It  is  pleasant  in  these  old  poets  to  admire  what 
has  been  admired  by  others — to  read  the  old  verses 
with  the  indorsement  of  genius.  The  name  adds 
value  to  the  bond.  Coleridge,  for  instance,  whose 
"  paper,"  in  a  mercantile  sense,  would  have  been, 
on  "  change,"  the  worst  in  England,  has  given  us 
many  of  these  notable  "  securities."  They  live  in 
his  still  echoing  "Table-Talk,"  and  are  sprinkled 
generously  over  his  writings — while  what  record 
is  there  of  the  "  good,"  the  best  financial  names 
of  the  day  ?  One  sonnet  of  Herbert  was  an 
especial  favorite  with  Coleridge.  It  was  that 
heart-searching,  sympathizing  epitome  of  spiritual 
life,  entitled 

"SIN. 

"  LORD,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  round ! 
Parents  first  season  us ;  then  school-masters 
Deliver  us  to  laws  ;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers. 

"Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in, 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises.  ., 
5 


98  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

"  Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness. 
The  sound  of  Glory  ringing  in  our  ears : 
Without,  our  shame ;  within,  our  consciences : 
A.ngels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears. 

"  Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole  array, 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away." 

These  poems,  it  should  be  remembered,  are  private 
devotional  heart-confessions,  not  written  for  sale, 
for  pay  or  reputation ;  they  were  not  printed  at 
all  during  the  author's  life,  but  were  brought  forth 
by  faithful  friends  from  the  sacred  coffer  of  his 
dying-room,  in  order  that  posterity  might  know  the 
secret  of  that  honorable  life  and  its  cheerful  end. 
Izaak  Walton  has  given  a  beautiful  setting  to  one 
stanza  from  the  eloquent  ode  "Sunday."  "The 
Sunday  before  his  death,"  his  biographer  tells  us, 
"  he  rose  suddenly  from  his  bed  or  couch,  called  for 
one  of  his  instruments,  took  it  into  his  hand,  and 
said: 

"'My  God,  my  God 
My  music  shall  find  thee, 

And  every  string 
Shall  have  his  attribute  to  sing. 

And  having  tuned  it,  he  played  and  sung : 

"  *  The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  time's  string, 


TEEFOEL.  99 

Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal  glorious  King. 
On  Sundays,  heaven's  door  stands  ope  ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife  ; 
More  plentiful  than  hope.' 

"  Thus  he  sung  on  earth  such  hymns  and  anthems 
as  the  angels  and  he,  and  Mr.  Farrer,  now  sing  in 
heaven." 

As  we  have  fallen  upon  this  personal,  biographi- 
cal vein,  and  as  the  best  key  to  a  man's  poetry  is  to 
Jmow  the  man  and  what  he  may  have  encountered, 
we  may  cite  the  poem  entitled  "  The  Pearl."  It  is 
compact  of  life  and  experience :  we  see  the  courtier 
and  the  scholar  ripening  into  the  saint ;  the  world 
not  forgotten  or  ignored,  but  its  best  pursuits 
calmly  weighed,  fondly  enumerated  and  left  behind, 
as  steps  of  the  celestial  ladder. 

"THE  PEARL. 

**  I  know  the  ways  of  learning ;  both  the  head 
And  pipes  that  feed  the  press,  and  make  it  run ; 
What  reason  hath  from  nature  borrowed, 
Or  of  itself,  like  a  good  housewife,  spun 
In  laws  and  policy ;  what  the  stars  conspire ; 
What  willing  nature  speaks,  what  forc'd  by  fire ; 
Both  th'  old  discoveries,  and  the  new-found  seas ; 
The  stock  and  surplus,  cause  and  history : 
All  these  stand  open,  or  I  have  the  keys : 
Yet  I  love  thce. 


100  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

"I  know  the  ways  of  honor,  what  maintains 
The  quick  returns  of  courtesy  and  wit : 
In  vies  of  favor  whether  party  gains, 
When  glory  swells  the  heart  and  mouldeth  it 
To  all  expressions  both  of  hand  and  eye, 
.     Which  on  the  world  a  true-love  knot  may  tie, 
And  bear  the  bundle,  wheresoe'er  it  goes : 
How  many  drams  of  spirits  there  must  be 
To  sell  my  life  unto  my  friends  or  foes : 
Yet  I  love  thee. 

"I  know  the  ways  of  pleasure,  the  sweet  strains, 
The  lullings  and  the  relishes  of  it ; 
The  propositions  of  hot  blood  and  brains  ; 
What  mirth  and  music  mean ;  what  love  and  wit 
Have  done  these  twenty  hundred  years,  and  more ; 
I  know  the  projects  of  unbridled  store  : 
My  stuff  is  flesh,  not  grass  ;  my  senses  live, 
And  grumble  oft,  that  they  have  more  in  me 
Than  he  that  curbs  them,  being  but  one  to  five : 
Yet  I  love  thee. 

44 1  know  all  these,  and  have  them  in  my  hand ; 
Therefore  not  sealed,  but  with  open  eyes 
I  fly  to  thee,  and  fully  understand 
Both  the  main  sale,  and  the  commodities ; 
And  at  what  rate  and  price  I  have  thy  love  ; 
With  all  the  circumstances  that  may  move : 
Yet  through  the  labyrinths,  not  my  grovelling  wit, 
But  thy  silk-twist  let  down  from  heav'n  to  me, 
Did  both  conduct  and  teach  me,  how,  by  it, 
To  climb  to  thee." 

A  splendid  retrospect  this  of  a  short,  life :  and 


TREFOIL.  101 

with  what  accurate  knowledge  of  art,  science, 
policy,  literature,  of  powers  of  body  and  mind. 
Herbert's  poems  are  full  of  this  sterling  sense  and 
philosophical  reflection — the  mintage  of  a  master 
121  in  d. 

Addison's  version  of  the  twenty-third  Psalm  has 
entered  into  every  household  and  penetrated  every 
heart  by  its  sweetness  and  pathos.  There  is  equal 
gentleness  and  sincerity  in  Herbert's  : 

"  The  God  of  love  my  shepherd  is, 

And  he  that  doth  me  feed. 

While  he  is  mine,  and  I  am  his, 

What  can  I  want  or  need  ? 

"  He  leads  me  to  the  tender  grass, 

Where  I  both  feed  and  rest ; 
Then  to  the  streams  that  gently  pass  : 
In  both  I  have  the  best. 

"  Or  if  I  stray,  he  doth  convert, 
And  bring  my  mind  in  frame 
And  all  this  not  for  my  desert, 
But  for  his  holy  name. 

"  Yea,  in  death's  shady,  black  abode 

Well  may  I  walk,  not  fear  : 
For  thou  art  with  me,  and  thy  rod 
To  guide,  thy  staff  to  bear. 

"  Nay,  thou  dost  make  me  sit  and  dine, 
E'en  in  my  eu'mies'  sight ; 


102  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

My  head  with  oil,  my  cup  with  wine, 
Runs  over  day  and  night. 

"  Surely  thy  sweet  and  wond'rous  love 

Shall  measure  all  my  days : 

And  as  it  never  shall  remove, 

So  neither  shall  my  praise." 

"We  might  linger  long  with  Herbert,  gathering 
the  fruits  of  wisdom  and  piety  from  the  abundant 
orchard  of  his  poems,  where  many  a  fruit  "  hangs 
amiable ;"  but  we  must  listen  to  his  brethren. 

HENRY  YATJGHAN  was  the  literary  offspring  of 
George  Herbert.  His  life,  too,  might  have  been 
written  by  good  Izaak  Walton,  so  gentle  was  it,  full 
of  all  pleasant  associations  and  quiet  nobleness, 
decorated  by  the  love  of  nature  and  letters,  intima- 
cies with  poets,  and  with  that  especial  touch  of 
nature  which  always  went  to  the  heart  of  the  Com- 
plete Angler,  a  love  of  fishing — for  Yaughan  was 
wont,  at  times,  to  skim  the  waters  of  his  native 
rivers. 

He  was  born  in  Wales ;  the  old  Roman  name  of 
the  country  conferring  upon  him  the  appellation 
u  Silurist " — for  in  those  days  local  pride  and 
affection  claimed  the  honor  of  the  bard,  as  the 
poet  himself  first  gathered  strength  from  the  home, 
earth  and  sky  which  concentrated  rather  than  cir- 


TEEFOIL.  '  103 

cumscribed  his  genius.  His  family  was  of  good 
old  lineage,  breathing  freely  for  generations  in  the 
upper  atmosphere  of  life,  warmed  and  cheered  in  a 
genial  sunlight  of  prosperity.  It  could  stir,  too,  at 
the  call  of  patriotism,  and  send  soldiers,  as  it  did,  to 
bite  the  heroic  dust  at  Agincourt.  Another  time 
brought  other  duties.  The  poet  came  into  the 
world  in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
when  the  great  awakening  of  thought  and  English 
intellect  was  to  be  followed  by  stirring  action.  He 
was  not,  indeed,  to  bear  any  great  part  in  the 
senate  or  the  field ;  but  all  noble  spirits  were  moved 
by  the  issues  of  the  time.  To  some  the  voice  of  the 
age  brought  hope  and  energy;  to  others,  a  not 
ignoble  submission.  It  was  perhaps  as  great  a 
thing  to  suffer  with  the  Royal  Martyr,  with  all  the 
burning  life  and  traditions  of  England  in  the  throb- 
bing heart,  as  to  rise  from  the  ruins  into  the  cold 
ether  where  the  stern  soul  of  Milton  could  wing  its 
way  in  self-reliant  calmness.  Honor  is  due,  as  in 
all  great  struggles,  to  both  parties.  Yaughan's  lot 
was  cast  with  the  conquered  cause. 

His  youth  was  happy,  as  all  poets'  should  be,  and 
as  the  genius  of  all  true  poets,  coupled  with  that 
period  of  life,  will  go  far  to  make  it.  There  must 
be  early  sunshine  for  the  first  nurture  of  that  deli- 
cate plant:  the  storm  comes  afterward  to  perfect 


104  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

its  life.  Vaughan  first  saw  the  light  in  a  rural  dis- 
trict of  great  beauty.  His  songs  bear  witness  to  it. 
Indeed  he  is  known  by  his  own  designation,  a  fra- 
grant title  in  the  sweet  fields  of  English  poesy,  as 
the  Swan  of  the  Usk,  though  he  veiled  the  title  in 
the  thin  garb  of  the  Latin,  "  Olor  Iscanus."  Another 
fortunate  circumstance  was  the  personal  character 
of  his  education,  at  the  hands  of  a  rural  Welsh 
rector,  with  whom,  his  twin  brother  for  a  com- 
panion, he  passed  the  years  of  youth  in  what,  we 
have  no  doubt,  were  pleasant  paths  of  classical 
literature.  How  inexhaustible  are  those  old  wells 
of  Greek  and  Roman  Letters !  The  world  cannot 
afford  to  spare  them  long.  They  may  be  less  in 
fashion  at  one  time  than  another,  but  their  beauty 
and  life-giving  powers  are  perennial.  The  Muse 
of  English  poesy  has  always  been  baptized  in  their 
waters. 

The  brothers  left  for  Oxford  at  the  mature  age — 
not  a  whit  too  late  for  any  minds — of  seventeen  or 
eighteen.  At  the  University  there  were  other  words 
than  the  songs  of  Apollo.  The  Great  Revolution 
was  already  on  the  carpet,  and  it  was  to  be  fought 
out  with  weapons  not  found  in  the  logical  armory 
of  Aristotle.  The  brothers  were  royalists,  of  course ; 
and  Henry,  before  the  drama  was  played  out,  like 
many  good  men  and  true,  tasted  the  inside  of  a 


TEEFOIL.  105 

prison — doubtless,  like  Lovelace  and  Wither,  sing- 
ing his  heartfelt  minstrelsy  behind  the  wires  of  his 
cage.  He  was  not  a  fighting  man.  Poets  rarely 
are.  More  than  one  lyrist — as  Archilochus  and 
Horace  may  bear  witness — has  thrown  away  his 
shield  on  the  field  of  battle.  Yaughan  wisely  re- 
tired to  his  native  Wales.  Jeremy  Taylor,  too,  it 
may  be  remembered,  was  locking  up  the  treasures 
of  his  richly-furnished  mind  and  passionate  feeling 
within  the  walls  of  those  same  Welsh  hills.  Nature, 
alone,  however,  is  inadequate  to  the  production  of 
a  true  poet.  Even  Wordsworth,  the  most  patient, 
absorbed  of  recluses,  had  his  share  of  education  in 
London  and  travel  in  foreign  cities.  Yaughan,  too, 
early  found  his  way,  in  visits,  to  the  metropolis, 
where  he  heard  at  the  Globe  Tavern  the  last  echoes 
of  that  burst  of  wit  and  knowledge  which  had  spo- 
ken from  the  tongue  and  kindled  in  the  eye  of  Shak- 
speare,  Spenser  and  Raleigh.  Ben  Jonson  was  still 
alive,  and  the  young  poets  who  fiocked  to  him,  as  a 
later  age  worshipped  Dryden,  were  all  "  sealed  of 
the  tribe  of  Ben."  Eandolph  and  Cartwright  were 
his  friends. 

Under  these  early  inspirations  of  youth,  nature, 
learning,  witty  companionship,  Yaughan  published 
his  first  verses — breathing  a  love  of  his  art  and  its 
pleasures  of  imagination,  paying  his  tribute  to  his 


-106  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

paternal  books  in  "Englishing,"  the  "Tenth  Satyre 
of  Juvenal,"  and  not  forgetting,  of  course,  the 
lovely  "  Amoret."  A  young  poet  without  a  lady 
in  his  verse  is  a  solecism  which  nature  abhors.  All 
this,  however,  as  his  biographer  remarks,  "  though 
fine  in  the  way  of  poetic  speculation,  would  not  do 
for  every-day  practice."  Of  course  not ;  and  the 
young  "  swan  "  turned  his  wary  feet  from  the  glit- 
tering stream  to  the  solid  land.  The  poet  became  a 
physician.  It  was  a  noble  art  for  such  a  spirit  to 
practise,  and  not  a  very  rude  progress  from  youth- 
ful poesy  if  he  felt  and  thought  aright.  There  was 
a  sterner  change  in  store,  however,  and  it  came  to 
him  with  the  monition,  "  Physician,  heal  thyself  I" 
He  was  prostrated  by  severe  bodily  disease,  and 
thenceforth  his  spirit  was  bowed  to  the  claims  of 
the  unseen  world.  The  "  light  amorist "  found  a 
higher  inspiration.  He  turned  his  footsteps  to  the 
Temple  and  worshipped  at  the  holy  altar  of  Herbert. 
His  poetry  becomes  religious.  "Sparks  from  the 
Flint "  is  the  title  which  he  gives  his  new  verses, 
"  Silex  Scintillans."  After  that  pledge  to  holiness 
given  to  the  world,  he  survived  nearly  half  a 
century,  dying  at  the  mature  age  of  seventy-three — 
a  happy  subject  of  contemplation  in  the  bosom  of 
his  "Welsh  retirement,  passing  quietly  down  the 
vale  of  life,  feeding  his  spirit  on  the  early-gathered 


TREFOIL.  107 

harvest  of  wit,  learning,  taste,  feeling,  fancy, 
benevolence  and  piety. 

Of  such  threads  was  the  life  of  our  poet  spun. 

His  verse  is  light,  airy,  flying  with  the  lark  to 
heaven.  Hear  him  with  "  his  singing  robes"  about 
him: 

"  I  would  I  were  some  bird  or  star, 
Mutt'ring  in  woods,  or  lifted  far 
Above  this  inn 
And  road  of  sin ! 

Then  either  star  or  bird  should  be 
Shining  or  singing  still  to  thee." 

In  this  song  of  "  Peace  " — 

"  My  soul,  there  is  a  country 

Afar  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skillful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  peace  sits  crown' d  with  smiles, 
And  one  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  friend, 

And  (oh,  my  soul  awake!) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress  and  thy  ease. 


108  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 
But  one,  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure." 

Or  in  that  kindred  ode,  full  of  "intimations  of 
immortality  received  in  childhood,"  entitled,  "  The 
Retreat :" 

"  Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shin'd  in  my  angel  infancy ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place, 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walkt  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face  ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  sev'ral  sin  to  ev'ry  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
Oh  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 


TREFOIL.  109 

Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train ; 
From  whence  th'  enlight'ned  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palni-trees. 
But,  ah !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return." 

Here  is  a  picture  of  tlie  angel-visited  world  of 
Eden,  not  altogether  destroyed  by  the  Fall,  when 

"  Each  day 

The  valley  or  the  mountain 
Afforded  visits,  and  still  Paradise  lay 

In  some  green  shade  or  fountain. 
Angels  lay  licger  here  :  each  bush  and  cell, 

Each  oak  and  highway  knew  them  ; 
Walk  but  the  fields,  or  sit  down  at  some  well, 

And  he  was  sure  to  view  them." 

Vaughan's  birds  and  flowers  gleam  with  ligli4 
from  the  spirit  land.  This  is  the  opening  of  a  little 
piece  entitled  «  The  Bird :" 

"  Hither  thou  com'st.     The  busy  wind  all  night 
Blew  through  thy  lodging,  where  thy  own  warm  wing 
Thy  pillow  was.     Many  a  sullen  storm, 
For  which  coarse  man  seems  much  the  fitter  born, 

Rain'd  on  thy  bed 

And  harmless  head ; 


110  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

And  now,  as  fresh  and  cheerful  as  the  light, 
Thy  little  heart  in  early  hymns  doth  sing 
Unto  that  Providence,  whose  unseen  arm 
Curb'd  them,  and  cloth'd  thee  well  and  warm." 

How  softly  the  image  of  the  little  bird  again 
tempers  the  thought  of  death  in  his  ode  to  the 
memory  of  the  departed : 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown." 

But  we  must  leave  this  fair  garden  of  the  poet's 
fancies.  The  reader  will  find  there  many  a  flower 
.yet  untouched. 

RICHARD  CKASHAW  was  the  contemporary  of  the 
early  years  of  Yaughan ;  for,  alas !  he  died  young — 
though  not  till  he  had  transcribed  for  the  world  the 
hopes,  the  aspirations,  the  sorrows  of  his  troubled 
life.  He  lived  but  thirty-four  years — the  volume 
of  his  verses  is  not  less  nor  more  than  the  kindred 
books  of  the  brother  poets  with  whom  we  are  now 
associating  his  memory.  A  small  body  of  verse 
will  hold  much  life ;  for  the  poet  gives  us  a  concen- 
trated essence,  an  elixir,  a  skillful  confection  of 
humanity,  which,  diluted  with  the  commonplaces 
of  every-day  thought  and  living,  may  cover  whole 


TEEFOIL.  Ill 

shelves  of  libraries.  The  secret  of  the  whole  of 
one  life  may  be  expressed  in  a  song  or  a  sonnet. 
The  little  books  of  the  world  are  not  the  least. 

Crashaw,  also,  was  a  scholar.  The  son  of  a  clergy- 
man, he  was  educated  at  the  famed  Charter-house 
and  afterward  at  Cambridge.  The  Revolution, 
too,  overtook  him.  He  refused  the  oath  of  the 
covenant,  was  ejected  from  his  fellowship,  became 
a  Roman  Catholic,  and  took  refuge  in  Paris,  where 
he  ate  the  bread  of  exile  with  Cowley  and  others, 
cheered  by  the  noble  sympathy — it  could  not  be 
much  more — of  Queen  Henrietta  Maria.  She  re- 
commended him  to  Rome,  and  the  sensitive  poet 
carried  his  joys  and  sorrows  to  the  bosom  of  the 
church.  He  lived  a  few  years,  and  died  canon  of 
Loretto,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four. 

Though  the  son  of  a  zealous  opponent  of  the 
Roman  church,  Crashaw  was  bom  with  an  instinct 
and  heart  for  its  service.  There  runs  through  all 
his  poetry  that  sensuousness  of  feeling  which  seeks 
the  repose  and  luxury  of  faith  which  Rome  always 
offers  to  her  ardent  votaries.  It  is  profitable  to 
compare  the  sentiment  of  Crashaw  with  the  more 
intellectual  development  of  Herbert.  What  in  the 
former  is  the  paramount,  constant  exhibition,  in 
the  latter  is  accepted,  and  holds  its  place  subordi- 
nate to  other  claims.  Without  a  portion  of  it  there 


112  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

could  be  no  deep  religious  life — with  it,  in  excess, 
we  fear  for  the  weakness  of  a  partial  development. 
There  is  so  much  gain,  however,  to  the  poet,  that 
we  have  no  disposition  to  take  exception  to  the  single 
string  of  Crashaw.  The  beauty  of  the  Venus  was 
made  up  from  the  charms  of  many  models.  So,  in 
our  libraries,  as  in  life,  we  must  be  content  with 
parcel-work,  and  take  one  man's  wisdom  and  ano- 
ther's sentiment,  looking  out  that  we  get  something 
of  each  to  enrich  our  multifarious  life. 

Crashaw 's  poetry  is  one  musical  echo  and  aspira- 
tion, lie  finds  his  theme  and  illustration  constantly 
in  music.  His  amorous  descant  never  fails  him :  his 
lute  is  always  by  his  side.  Following  the  "  Steps 
of  the  Temple,"  a  graceful  tribute  to  Herbert,  we 
have  the  congenial  title,  "  The  Delights  of  the 
Muses,"  opening  with  that  exquisite  composition : 

"  Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony," 

"Music's  Duel."  It  is  the  story — a  favorite  one 
to  the  ears  of  our  forefathers  two  centuries  ago — of 
the  nightingale  and  the  musician  contending  with 
voice  and  instrument  in  alternate  melodies,  till  the 
sweet  songstress  of  the  grove  falls  and  dies  upon 
the  lute  of  her  rapt  rival.  It  is  something  more 
than  a  pretty  talc.  Ford,  the  dramatist,  introduced 


TREFOIL.  113 

it  briefly  in  happy  lines  in  "The  Lover's  Melan- 
choly," but  Crashaw's  verses  inspire  the  very  sweet- 
ness and  lingering  pleasure  of  the  contest.  It  is  high 
noon  when  the  "  sweet  lute's  master  "  seeks  retire- 
ment from  the  heat,  "  on  the  scene  of  a  green  plat, 
under  protection  of  an  oak,"  by  the  bank  of  the 
Tiber.  The  "  light-foot  lady," 

"The  sweet  inhabitant  of  each  glad  tree," 

"  entertains  the  music's  soft  report,"  which  begins 
with  a  flying  prelude,  to  which  the  lady  of  the  tree 
"  carves  out  her  dainty  voice "  with  "  quick 
volumes  of  wild  notes." 

"  His  nimble  hand's  instinct  then  taught  each  string, 
A  cap'ring  cheerfulness ;  and  made  them  sing 
To  their  own  dance." 

She 

"  Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note 
Through  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat : 
A  clear,  unwrinkled  song." 

The  contention  invites  every  art  of  expression. 
The  highest  powers  of  the  lute  are  evoked  in  rapid 
succession  closing  with  a  martial  strain  : 

•  "  this  lesson,  too, 
She  gives  him  back,  her  supple  breast  thrills  out 


114  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 

Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill, 

And  folds  in  waved  notes,  with  a  trembling  bill, 

The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song  ; 

Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 

Of  short  thick  sobs,  whose  thund'ring  vollies  float, 

And  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 

In  panting  murmurs,  'still'd  out  of  her  breastr 

That  ever-bubbling  spring,  the  sugar'd  nest 

Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  does  lie 

Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody, 

Music's  best  seed-plot ;  when  in  ripen'd  airs 

A  golden-headed  harvest  fairly  rears 

His  honey-dropping  tops,  ploughed  by  her  breath, 

Which  there  reciprocally  laboreth. 

In  that  sweet  soil  it  seems  a  holy  quire, 

Founded  to  th'  name  of  great  Apollo's  lyre ; 

Whose  silver  roof  rings  with  the  sprightly  notes 

Of  sweet-lipp'd  angel  imps,  that  swill  their  throats 

In  cream  of  morning  Helicon ;  and  then 

Prefer  soft  anthems  to  the  ears  of  men, 

To  woo  them  from  their  beds,  still  murmuring 

That  men  can  sleep  while  they  their  matins  sing." 

What  wealth  of  imagery  and  proud  association 
of  ideas — the  bubbling  spring,  the  golden,  waving 
harvest,  "  ploughed  by  her  breath  " — the  fane  of 
Apollo  suggesting  in  a  word  images  of  Greek 
maidens  in  chorus  by  the  white  temple  of  the  God, 
the  dew  of  Helicon,  the  soft  waking  of  men  from 
beneficent  repose.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  a 


TREFOIL.  115 

bird  doing  all  this:  we  admire  nightingales,  but 
Philomela  never  enchanted  us  in  this  way ;  it  is  the 
sex  with  which  we  are  charmed.  The  poet's 
"  light-foot  lady  "  tells  us  the  secret.  "We  are  sub- 
dued by  the  loveliest  of  prima-donnas. 

There  is  more  of  this,  and  as  good.  The  little 
poem  is  a  poet's  dictionary  of  musical  expression. 
Its  lines,  less  than  two  hundred,  deserve  to  be  com- 
mitted to  memory,  to  rise  at  times  in  the  mind — 
the  soft  assuagement  of  cares  and  sorrows. 

A  famous  poem  of  Crashaw  is  "On  a  Prayer- 
Book  sent  to  Mrs.  M.  R."  It  breathes  a  divine 
ecstasy  of  the  sacred  ode  : 

"  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul ;  dear  and  divine  annihilations  ; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights." 

It  is  human  passion  sublimated  and  refined  to 
the  uses  of  heaven,  but  human  passion  still — the 
very  luxury  of  religion — the  rapture  of  earth-born 
seraphs,  as  he  sings  with  venturous  exultation  : 

"  The  rich  and  roseal  spring  of  those  rare  sweets, 
Which  with  a  swelling  bosom  there  she  meets, 
Boundless  and  infinite,  bottomless  treasures 

Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures : 
Happy  proof  she  shall  discover, 
What  joy,  what  bliss, 


116  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

How  many  heavens  at  once  it  is, 
To  have  a  God  become  her  lover !" 


Mrs.  M.  R.,  whether  maid  or  widow  we  know 
not — in  Crashaw's  day  virgins  were  called  Mistress 
—lias  another  poem  addressed  to  her — "  Counsel 
concerning  her  choice."  It  alludes  to  some  check 
or  hindrance  in  love,  and  asks : 

"  Dear,  heav'n-designed  soul ! 

Amongst  the  rest 

Of  suitors  that  besiege  your  maiden  breast, 

Why  may  not  I 

My  fortune  try, 

And  venture  to  speak  one  good  word, 
Not  for  myself,  alas !  but  for  my  dearer  Lord  ? 

***** 
Your  first  choice  fails ;  oh,  when  you  choose  again, 
May  it  not  be  among  the  sons  of  men !" 

This  is  the  language  of  devotional  rapture  com- 
mon to  the  extremes  of  the  religious  world — 
Methodism  and  Roman  Catholicism.  Every  one 
has  heard  the  ardent  hymn  by  ]S"ewton — "  The 
Name  of  Jesus,"  and  that  stirring  anthem,  "  The 
Coronation  of  Christ " — few  have  read  the  eloquent 
production  of  the  canon  of  Loretto,  a  canticle  from 
the  flaming  heart  of  Home,  addressed  "To  the 
name  above  every  name,  the  name  of  Jesus." 


TREFOIL.  117 

"  Pow'rs  of  my  soul,  be  proud ! 

And  speak  loud 

To  all  the  dear-bought  nations  this  redeeming  name  ; 
And  in  the  wealth  of  one  rich  word  proclaim 
New  smiles  to  nature. 

***** 
Sweet  name,  in  thy  each  syllable 
A  thousand  blest  Arabias  dwell ; 
A  thousand  hills  of  frankincense, 
Mountains  of  myrrh,  and  beds  of  spices, 
And  ten  thousand  paradises, 
The  soul  that  tastes  thee  takes  from  thence. 
How  many  unknown  worlds  there  are 
Of  comforts,  which  thou  hast  in  keeping ! 
How  many  thousand  mercies  there 
In  Pity's  soft  lap  lie  asleeping !" 

Crashaw's  invitations  to  holiness  breathe  the 
very  gallantry  of  piety.  He  addresses  "  the 
noblest  and  best  of  ladies,  the  Countess  of  Den- 
bigh," who  had  been  his  patroness  in  exile,  "  per- 
suading her  to  resolution  in  religion." 

"  What  heaven-entreated  heart  is  this 
Stands  trembling  at  the  gate  of  bliss. 

***** 
What  magic  bolts,  what  mystic  bars 
Maintain  the  will  in  these  strange  wars  ! 
What  fatal,  what  fantastic  bands 
Keep  the  free  heart  from  its  own  hands ! 
So,  when  the  year  takes  cold,  we  see 
Poor  waters  their  own  prisoners  be ; 


118  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

Fetter' d  and  lock'd  up  fast,  they  lie 

In  a  sad  self-captivity ; 

Th'  astonish'd  nymphs  their  floods'  strange  fate  deplore, 

To  see  themselves  their  own  severer  shore. 

***** 
Disband  dull  fears  ;  give  Faith  the  day ; 
"To  save  your  life,  kill  your  delay ; 
It  is  Love's  siege,  and  sure  to  be 
Your  triumph,  though  his  victory." 

His  poem,  "  The  Weeper,"  shoots  the  prismatic 
hues  of  the  rainbow  athwart  the  veil  of  fast-falling 
tears : 

"  Hail  sister  springs, 
Parents  of  silver-footed  rills ! 

Ever  bubbling  things ! 
Thawing  crystal !  snowy  hills ! 
Still  spending,  never  spent ;  I  mean 
Thy  fair  eyes,  sweet  Magdalene. 

***** 
u  Every  morn  from  hence, 
A  brisk  cherub  something  sips, 

Whose  soft  influence 
Adds  sweetness  to  his  sweetest  lips ; 
Then  to  his  music,  and  his  song 
Tastes  of  this  breakfast  all  day  long. 

"  Not  in  the  evening's  eyes, 

When  they  red  with  weeping  are 
For  the  sun  that  dies, 

Sits  sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair. 
Nowhere  but  here  did  ever  meet 
Sweetness  so  sad,  sadness  so  sweet. 


TREFOIL.  119 

"  When  Sorrow  would  be  seen 

In  her  brightest  majesty, 
For  she  is  a  queen, 

Then  is  she  drest  by  none  but  thee. 
Then,  and  only  then,  she  wears 
Her  richest  pearls,  I  mean  thy  tears. 

"  The  dew  no  more  will  weep, 

The  primrose's  pale  cheek  to  deck  j 
The  dew  no  more  will  sleep, 

Nuzzled  in  the  lily's  neck. 
Much  rather  would  it  tremble  here, 
And  leave  them  both  to  be  thy  tear." 

These  are  some  of  Crashaw's  "Steps  to  the 
Temple  " — verily  he  walked  thither  on  velvet. 

"  Wishes  to  his  supposed  Mistress,"  is  more  than 
a  pretty  enumeration  of  the  good  qualities  of 
woman  as  they  rise  in  the  heart  of  a  noble,  gallant 
lover : 

"  Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  she, 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me : 
"  Where'er  she  lie, 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye, 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny : 
"Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  fate,  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth : 
"  Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine : 


120  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

"  Meet  you  her,  my  wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
And  be  ye  call'd  my  absent  kisses." 

We  are  not  reprinting  Crashaw,  and  must  for- 
bear further  quotation.  It  is  enough  if  we  have 
presented  to  the  reader  a  lily  or  a  rose  from  his 
pages,  and  have  given  a  clue  to  that  treasure- 
house — 

"  A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie." 

A  generation  nurtured  in  poetic  susceptibility  by 
the  genius  of  Keats  and  Tennyson,  should  not 
forget  the  early  muse  of  Crashaw.  His  verse  is 
the  very  soul  of  tenderness  and  imaginative  luxury : 
less  intellectual,  less  severe  in  the  formation  of 
a  broad,  manly  character  than  Herbert ;  catching 
up  the  brighter  inspirations  of  Yaughan,  and  excel- 
ling him  in  richness — it  has  a  warm,  graceful  garb 
of  its  own.  It  is  tinged  with  the  glowing  hues  of 
Spenser's  fancy;  baptized  in  the  fountains  of  sacred 
love,  it  draws  an  earthly  inspiration  from  the 
beautiful  in  nature  and  life,  as  in  the  devout  paint- 
ings of  the  great  Italian  masters,  we  find  the  models 
of  their  angels  and  seraphs  on  earth. 


MISEEEEE    DOMINE. 

BY  WILLIAM  H.   BFELEIGH. 

THOU  who  look'st  with  pitying  eye 

From  Thy  radiant  home  on  high, 

On  the  spirit  tempest-tost,-      • 

Wretched,  weary,  wandering,  lost — 

Ever  ready  help  to  give, 

And  entreating,  "  Look  and  Iwe  /" 

By  that  love,  exceeding  thought, 

Which  from  Heaven  the  Saviour  brought, 

By  that  mercy  which  could  dare 

Death  to  save  us  from  despair, 

Lowly  bending  at  Thy  feet, 

We  adore,  implore,  entreat, 

Lifting  heart  and  voice  to  Thee — 

Miserere  Domine! 

With  the  vain  and  giddy  throng, 
FATHER  !  we  have  wandered  long ; 
6 


122  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Eager  from  Thy  paths  to  stray, 
Chosen  the  forbidden  way ; 
Heedless  of  the  light  within, 
Hurried  on  from  sin  to  sin, 
•  And  with  scoffers  madly  trod 
On  the  mercy  of  our  God ! 
Now  to  where  Thine  altars  burn, 
FATHER  !  sorrowing  we  return. 
Though  forgotten,  Thou  hast  not 
To  be  merciful  forgot ; 
Hear  us  !  for  we  cry  to  Thee — 
Miserere  Domine  ! 

From  the  burden  of  our  grief 
Who,  but  Thou,  can  give  relief  ? 
Who  can  pour  Salvation's  light 
On  the  darkness  of  our  night  ? 
Bowed  our  load  of  sin  beneath, 
Who  can  snatch  our  souls  from  death  ? 
Yain  the  help  of  man ! — in  dust 
Yainly  do  we  put  our  trust ! 
Smitten  by  Thy  chastening  rod, 
Hear  us,  save  us,  SON  OF  GOD  ! 
From  the  perils  of  our  path, 
From  the  terrors  of  thy  wrath, 
Save  us,  when  we  look  to  thee — 
Miserere  Domine  ! 


MISEKERE   DOMINE.  123 

"Where  the  pastures  greenly  grow, 
Where  the  waters  gently  flow, 
And  beneath  the  sheltering  ROCK 
With  the  shepherd  rests  the  flock. 
Oh,  let  us  be  gathered  there 
Kichly  of  Thy  love  to  share ; 
With  the  people  of  Thy  choice 
Live  and  labor  and  rejoice, 
Till  the  toils  of  life  are  done, 
Till  the  fight  is  fought  and  won, 
And  the  crown,  with  heavenly  glow, 
Sparkles  on  the  victor's  brow ! 
Hear  the  prayer  we  lift  to  Thee — 
Miserere  Domine  ! 


THE 

KINGDOMS  OF  NATUKE  PKAISUsTG  GOD : 
A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  THE  148TH  PSALM. 

BY   REV.    C.    A.   BARTOL. 

SURROUNDED  as  we  are  with  the  art  and  handicraft 
of  man — almost  everything  we  see  bearing  the  mark 
of  his  finger,  the  house  and  the  street,  the  market 
and  exchange,  every  instrument  and  utensil — it  is 
well,  occasionally,  to  look  forth  from  this  little 
world  of  custom  and  convenience  we  ourselves 
have  constructed,  into  that  which  bears  the  impress 
of  the  Almighty's  hand — is  still  as  it  was  left  from 
His  forming  strength,  and  brings  us  into  immediate 
communion  with  His  Infinite  mind.  Let  us,  at  least, 
listen  to  the  notes  of  David's  lyre  on  the  creative 
Majesty. 

After  an  invocation  to  the  heavenly  host,  the 
Psalmist  calls  first  on  the  forms  of  inanimate  and 
inorganic  existence.  These  things,  of  which  he 
enumerates  a  few,  praise  the  power  of  God.  The 
crags  and  headlands,  jarred  and  worn  by  the  bil- 

124 


KINGDOMS   OF   NATURE   PRAISING  GOD.  125 

lows  they  breast ;  the  granite  peaks,  bald  and  grey, 
under  light  and  tempest,  with  the  silent  host  of 
rocky  boulders,  swept,  we  know  not  by  what  con- 
vulsions, from  their  native  seat,  stand  up  as  the 
Urst  rank  in  the  choir  of  the  Maker's  worship ;  and 
infidelity  and  atheism  are  hushed  and  abashed  by 
their  lofty  praise. 

Organized,  but  still  unconscious  existence  takes 
the  next  station  in  this  universal  chorus.  The 
solemn  grove  lifting  its  green  top  into  the  heavens, 
beside  that  motionless  army  of  ancient  stones,  adds  a 
sweeter  note  than  they  can  give  to  the  great  har- 
mony. It  is  a  note,  speaking  not  alone  of  the 
Creator's  power,  but  of  His  wisdom  too.  Here  is 
life  and  growth.  Here  are  adaptations  and  stages 
of  progress.  From  the  minutest  germination, 
from  the  slenderest  stem,  from  the  smallest 
trembling  leaf  to  the  hugest  trunks  and  the 
highest  overshadowing  branches,  this  vegetable 
organization,  verdant,  pale,  crimson,  in  changeable 
colors,  runs ;  stopping  short  only  with  Alpine  sum- 
mits or  polar  posts,  swiftly  and  softly  clothing  again 
the  rents  and  gashes  in  the  ground  made  by  the 
stroke  of  labor  or  the  wheels  of  war — blooming 
into  the  golden  and  ruddy  harvest  on  the  stalk 
and  the  bough,  even  overpassing  the  salt  shore, 
to  line  the  dismal  and  unvisited  caves  of  the 


126  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

deep  with  peculiar  varieties  of  growth  ;  and 
casting  forth  into  our  hands  from  the  foaming 
brine  delicate  and  strangely  beautiful  leaves  and 
slight  ramifications  of  matchless  tints  and  pro- 
portions. 

But  the  Psalmist  summons  a  third  order  of  beings 
to  contribute  its  melodious  share  to  this  hallelujah  ; 
and  that  is  the  living  and  conscious,  though  irra- 
tional tribes.  This  sings  not  of  power  and  wisdom 
alone,  but  more  complex  and  rich  in  adoration, 
sings  of  goodness  also.  God  has  not  made  the 
world  for  a  dead  spectacle  and  mere  picture  for  His 
own  eye.  How  full  and  crowded  with  life,  and 
happy  life,  His  creation  is  !  Go  forth  from  inclos- 
ing city  walls,  and,  in  the  summer  noontide,  stop  in 
solitude  and  apparent  silence  and  listen ;  and  soon 
the  sounds  of  this  joyous  life  shall  come  to  your 
ear :  the  chirp  of  the  insects — the  rustle  of  wings — 
the  crackling  of  the  leaves,  as  the  blithesome  airy 
creatures  pass — the  short,  thick  warble  of  the  bird 
by  your  side,  or  its  varied  tune,  clearer  than  viol  or 
organ,  from  the  thicket  beyond — while,  from  time 
to  time,  the  deep  low  of  cattle  reverberates  from 
afar.  Or  if  you  are  where  the  still  and  speechless 
creatures  inhabit,  open  your  eye  to  gaze  and  exam- 
ine, and  it  shall  be  filled  with  the  visible,  as  the  ear 
with  the  vocal  signs  of  living  enjoyment.  "Walking 


KINGDOMS   OF   NATURE    PRAISING   GOD.  127 

at  the  edge  of  the  ebbing  tide,  you  tread  on  life  at 
every  step — shelly  tribe  on  tribe  of  fish  pressing 
together,  while  in  the  clear  water,  other  tribes 
noiselessly  swim  and  glide  away.  Every  vital 
motion  speaks  of  pleasure,  whether  in  that  restless 
current  below,  or  in  the  air  above,  as  the  feathered 
songster  passes,  darting  up  and  down  his  element, 
delight  gushing  from  his  throat  at  every  buoyant 
spring — silence  and  sound,  with  double  demonstra- 
tion, declaring  to  the  Creator's  praise  the  great  and 
limitless  boon  of  life. 

But  there  is  one  accent  more,  that  of  love,  with- 
out which  the  hymn  is  not  complete  ;  and  there  is 
another  human  order  of  Being  to  speak  that  accent., 
Man  includes  in  himself  all  the  preceding  orders  of 
Being,  with  all  the  notes  of  their  praise :  the 
material  clod,  for  is  he  not  made  of  dust ;  the  plant, 
for  he  has  an  outward  growth  and  circulation — the 
animal,  for  he  has  instinct  and  feeling ;  while  reason 
and  conscience  and  spiritual  aifection  he  has  pecu- 
liarly and  alone ;  so  that  Power,  Wisdom,  Goodness 
and  Love,  all  concentrated  in  him,  complete  the 
ground  of  his  praise. 

Yet,  as  we  look  out  upon  this  mighty  sum  of 
things  in  the  external  universe,  the  level  earth 
stretching  off  to  some  ascending  ridge  in  the  hori- 
zon's blue  distance — the  boundless  deep  spread  afar, 


128  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

till,  at  the  misty  edge  of  vision  it  bends,  in  ming- 
ling threefold  circles,  to  embrace  the  globe,  the 
impenetrable  below  and  the  infinite  above  him, 
how  slight  and  insignificant  a  creature  he  seems ! 
like  a  fly  that  clings  to  the  ceiling,  or  a  mote  that 
swims  in  the  sunbeam,  one  of  the  mere  mites  of 
nature,  easily  lost  by  the  way  or  a  frail  figure 
ready  to  be  crushed  by  any  stroke  of  the  ponder- 
ous machinery  mid  which  he  moves.  When  he 
reflects  on  his  condition — his  brief  date,  his  speedy 
doom — how  inconsiderable  his  existence  appears ! 
Or  when  he  regards  himself  as  not  a  compound  of 
matter  merely,  but  as  a  living  soul,  how  easy  it 
seems,  as  his  contemplation  runs  out  absorbed  into 
the  wondrous  glory  of  the  world,  for  all  the  vital 
energy  which  is  for  a  moment  insulated  in  his 
frame,  when  his  frame  dissolves,  to  pass  into  the 
general  substance  from  which  it  came,  the  thinking 
creature  ending  as  it  began  !  But  a  voice  from  hea- 
ven cries  to  him  and  says,  "  Because  he  hath  set  his 
love  upon  me,  therefore  will  I  deliver  him.  I  will 
set  him  on  high  because  he  hath  known  my  name  ; 
with  long  life  will  I  satisfy  him  and  show  him  my 
salvation." 

This  love  of  God  makes  the  society  of  all  human 
affection.  "  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made 
the  town,"  is  an  oft  quoted  line  ;  and  not  seldom  it 


KINGDOMS  OF  NATURE  PRAISING  GOD.  129 

is  implied  that  the  open  or  thinly-peopled  land- 
scape is  somehow  a  better  and  holier  place  for  the 
soul  than  the  thronged  city.  But  let  it  not  be  for- 
gotten that  man  himself  is  God's  work  and  His 
highest  work  on  earth.  Would  we  sing  our  psalm 
now  or  hereafter  with  the  sweetest  relish,  we  must 
go  forth  from  any  little  circle  we  may  have  drawn 
around  us,  of  private  ease  and  personal  comfort,  in 
friendly  intercourse  to  hear  the  cry  of  the  unfortu- 
nate, the  sighing  of  the  prisoner,  the  sob  of  the 
mourner,  the  groan  of  the  sick,  the  appeal  of  the 
injured  and  oppressed.  By  our  aid,  consolation 
and  succor,  we  must  gather  their  voices  into  the 
chorus,  before,  with  perfect  satisfaction,  we  can 
mingle  in  it  our  own. 

Upon  a  Sabbath  day,  I  walked  amid  all  those 
charms  and  fascinations,  in  which  nature  can  bind 
us  as  in  a  spell.  I  passed  through  green  aisles  of 
woods,  that  were  ever-shadowed  and  made  fragrant 
with  every  various  vegetable  growth  of  this  tempe- 
rate northern  clime ;  while  the  morning  beam  of 
the  sun  in  heaven  fell  brightly  aslant  the  leaves  and 
branches;  and  the  birds,  that  my  lonely  step 
startled  from  their  perch  or  nest,  flew  from  glen  to 
glen,  making  with  their  song,  save  the  murmur  of 
the  breeze  in  the  boughs,  the  only  sound  I  could 
hear.  At  length,  the  high-arched  avenues  of  this 
6* 


130  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

immense  forest-cathedral  let  me  out  upon  the  broad, 
open  shore,  where  I  saw  and  heard  wave  after  wave 
break  on  the  rocks,  with  shifting  splendor  and  that 
mellow  thundering  music  which  so  saddens  while 
it  delights.  Solitude,  verily,  was  stretched  out 
asleep  in  the  sun  upon  the  length  of  sandy  beach 
and  beetling  promontory ;  and  I  sat  and  gazed  now 
over  the  boundless  waters,  now  into  the  devouring 
abysses  opened  by  the  bending  crests  of  the  bil- 
lows, and  anon  into  the  gloomy  depths  of  the  forest 
or  the  serene  and  measureless  openings  of  the  sky. 
What  grandeur  in  every  line  transcendent !  Yet 
what  impenetrable  mystery  too,  what  menacing 
ruin  to  the  small  remnant  of  human  life  still 
spared  from  the  generations  in  ages  past,  already 
swallowed  up !  Peering  around  in  this  pensive 
mood,  in  which  the  joy  of  being  mixed  with  the 
uneasy  doubt  of  its  tenure,  my  eye  fell  at  last  on 
the  spire  of  a  little  church,  rising  like  a  pencil  of 
light  to  heaven,  out  of  the  fathomless  waste.  And 
there  my  soul  alighted  and  found  rest.  Like  some 
sea  mark  to  the  voyager,  that  slender  shaft,  reared 
by  the  social  religion  of  the  world,  stood  to  tell  me 
where  in  the  universe  I  was ;  the  common  Christ- 
ian consciousness  reinforced  my  own,  and  dark 
queries  and  agitating  uncertainties  subsided  from 
my  spirit,  as  the  deluge  from  the  dove  that  Noah 


KINGDOMS  OF  NATUKE  PKAISING   GOD.  131 

sent  out  to  pluck  the  green  branch  of  promise. 
From  the  illimitable  reaches  of  the  huge,  but  dimly 
responding  creation  around,  the  slight,  frail  temple 
for  God's  praise  drew  me  to  its  welcome  and  peace- 
ful embrace.  As  I  approached  it,  the  tolling  of  the 
bell  struck  on  my  ear  in  a  touch  of  gladder  tidings 
than  I  had  received  from  all  the  melody  of  the 
great  wind-harp  of  the  trees,  with  all  the  soft 
accord  of  the  tossing  billows.  Stroke  after  stroke, 
distinctly  falling,  seemed  to  bring  to  me  the  echoes 
of  a  million  holy  telegraphic  towers  all  over  the 
surface  of  the  globe ;  and  when  I  came  to  stand 
under  the  eaves  of  the  small  sanctuary,  the  mea- 
sured turning,  in  the  belfry,  of  the  wheel,  by  revo- 
lutions such  as  I  had  seen  long  years  ago  in  my 
childhood,  filled  my  eyes  with  gracious  tokens,  that 
were  not  drawn  from  me  by  the  sublime  circling  of 
the  sun  and  moon,  then  moving  east  and  west  in 
their  spheres.  The  final  tone  of  praise  in  the  great 
ascription  to  God  is,  in  its  fullness,  supplied  by  a 
revelation  greater  than  blessed  the  times  of  David. 
A  new  and  sweeter  string  is  strung  upon  the  lyre 
his  royal  fingers  so  nobly  swept,  and  the  voice  of 
thanksgiving  is  more  highly  raised  for  an  "  unspeak- 
able gift."  The  kingdoms  of  nature  are  the  chords 
on  the  harp  we  may  sound  to  the  Creator  of  all. 
There  has  been  of  late  much  discussion  as  to  the 


132  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

place  nature  should  hold  among  religious  influences 
and  appeals,  some  super-eminently  exalting  her, 
and  others  putting  her  in  contrast  and  almost  oppo- 
sition with  all  spirit,  beauty  and  truth.  This  is  no 
place,  nor  has  the  present  writer  inclination,  here, 
to  take  part  in  the  grand  debate,  infinitely  inter- 
esting as  it  is,  on  either  side.  He  would  only  catch, 
or  repeat  and  prolong  the  strain  of  an  old  and 
sacred  ode — he  would  contribute  a  meditation. 
He  would  run  the  matchless  ancient  verse  into  a 
few  particulars  of  fresh  and  modern  illustration, 
content  if  he  can  make  no  melody  of  his  own,  to 
recall  for  some,  perhaps  not  enough  heeding  it,  the 
Hebrew  music  that  has  lingered  so  long  on  the  ear 
of  the  world. 


TEANSLATIONS. 

BY   THE   EEV.    CHARLES   T.    BKOOKS. 
I. 

TO  GOD'S  CARE  I  COMMIT  MYSELF! 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  ARNDT.) 

AGAIN  is  hushed  the  busy  day, 
And  all  to  sleep  is  gone  away ; 
The  deer  hath  sought  his  mossy  bed, 
The  bird  hath  hid  his  little  head, 
And  man  to  his  still  chamber  goes 
To  rest  from  all  his  cares  and  woes. 

Yet  steps  he  first  before  his  door, 

To  look  into  the  night  once  more, 

With  love-thanks  and  love-greeting,  there, 

For  rest  his  spirit  to  prepare, 

To  see  the  high  stars  shine  abroad 

And  drink  once  more  the  breath  of  God. 

138 


134  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Mild  Father  of  the  world,  whose  love 
Keeps  watch  o'er  all  things  from  above, 
To  Thee  my  stammering  prayer  would  rise ; 
Bend  down  from  yonder  starry  skies ; 
And  from  Thy  sparkling,  sun-strewed  way, 
Oh  teach  thy  feeble  child  to  pray  ! 

All  day  Thou  hadst  me  in  Thy  sight ; 
So  guard  me,  Father,  through  this  night ; 
Ajid  by  thy  dear  benignity 
From  Satan's  malice  shelter  me ; 
For  what  of  evil  may  befall 
The  body,  is  the  least  of  all. 

Oh  send  from  realms  of  purity 

The  dearest  angel  in  to  me, 

As  a  peace-herald  let  him  come, 

And  watchman,  to  my  house  and  home, 

That  all  desires  and  thoughts  of  mine, 

Around  thy  heaven  may  climb  and  twine. 

Then  day  shall  part  exultingly, 
Then  night  a  word  of  love  shall  be, 
Then  morn  an  angel-smile  shall  wear 
Whose  brightness  no  base  thing  can  bear, 
And  we,  earth's  children,  walk  abroad, 
Children  of  light  and  sons  of  God. 


TRANSLATIONS.  135 

And  when  the  last  red  evening-glow 
Shall  greet  these  failing  eyes  below, 
"When  yearns  my  soul  to  wing  its  way 
To  the  high  track  of  endless  day, 
Then  all  the  shining  ones  shall  come 
To  bear  me  to  the  spirit's  home. 


II. 
THE  UNKNOWN. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  AUERSPERQ.) 

THROUGH  the  city's  narrow  gateway 
Forth  an  aged  beggar  fares, 

None  is  there  to  give  him  escort, 
And  no  farewell  word  he  bears. 

Heaven's  grey  cloud  to  no  one  whispers 
Of  God's  message  in  its  fold  ; 

Earth's  grey  rock  to  no  one  whispers 
That  it  hides  the  shaft  of  gold. 

And  the  naked  tree  in  winter 
Tells  not  straightway  to  the  eye 

That  it  once  so  greenly  glistened, 
Bloomed  and  bore  so  bounteously. 


136  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

None  would  dream  that  yon  old  beggar, 
Tottering,  bending  toward  the  ground, 

Once  was  clothed  in  royal  purple, 
And  his  silver  locks  gold-crowned  ! 

•  Foul  conspirators  discrowned  him, 

Tore  the  radiant  purple  off, 

Placing  in  his  hands,  for  sceptre, 

Yonder  wormy  pilgrim-staff. 

Thus,  for  years,  now,  has  he  wandered, 
All  ungreeted  and  unknown, 

Through  so  many  a  foreign  country, 
Bowed  and  broken  and  alone. 

Weary  unto  death,  he  lays  him 
'Neath  a  tree,  in  evening's  beam, 

Music  in  the  twigs  and  blossoms 
Sings  him  to  an  endless  dream. 

Men  that  to  and  fro  pass  by  him, 
Speak  in  softened  tones  of  grief; 

Who  may  be  the  poor  old  beggar, 
That  has  found  this  sad  relief? 

But  mild  Nature,  soft-eyed  Nature, 
Knows  the  aged  sleeper  there, 

Obsequies  of  solemn  splendor, 
Meet  for  king,  will  she  prepare. 


TRANSLATIONS.  137 

From  the  tree  fall  wreaths  of  blossoms, 
Floating  down  to  crown  his  head, 

And  a  sceptre's  golden  lustre 
Sunset  on  his  staff  hath  shed. 

For  a  canopy  above  him 

Rustling  twigs  a  green  arch  throw, 
And  he  wears  a  royal  purple 

In  the  evening's  mantling  glow. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    NEA1STDEK, 

THE   CHURCH   HISTORIAN. 

BY   THE   EKV.    EOSWELL   D.    HITCHCOCK,    D.D. 

IN  the  spring  of  1848,  during  the  progress  of  the 
European  revolutions,  which  promised  so  much  and 
performed  so  little,  I  spent  several  weeks  in  Berlin, 
the  capital  of  Prussia,  and  saw  much,  both  in 
public  and  in  private,  of  "  the  father  of  modern 
church  history,"  whose  name  I  had  long  revered, 
and  whose  image  now  is  one  of  the  choicest  trea- 
sures of  memory.  Of  all  the  Christian  scholars  I 
have  ever  known,  he  stands  in  my  thoughts  without 
a  rival;  a  child  in  simplicity,  a  sage  in  learning, 
and  in  broad,  catholic  and  fervent  piety,  a  noble 
saint.  In  common  with  hundreds  of  my  country- 
men, I  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude,  of  which  this 
humble  tribute  to  his  memory  will  be  but  a  faint 
acknowledgment. 

Of  Neander's  outward  history  there  is  but  little 
to  be  reported ;  his  life  was  the  retired  and  unevent- 

133 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  NEANDER.  139 

fill  one  of  a  peculiarly  intense  and  abstracted 
student.  It  is  hardly  a  figure  of  speech,  but  almost 
exactly  the  literal  truth  to  say  that  he  was  born, 
and  lived,  and  died,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
Universities.  He  was  not,  indeed,  quite  so  much 
of  a  recluse  as  his  fellow-countryman  Kantj  the 
renowned  Konigsberg  philosopher,  who,  though  he 
reached  the  age  of  eighty,  and  had  a  reputation 
which  filled  all  Europe,  was  never  more  than 
thirty-two  miles  away  from  the  spot  where  his 
mother  rocked  him  in  his  cradle.  But  considering 
the  ampler  means  at  his  command,  and  the  greatly 
increased  facilities  for  travelling,  Neander's  neglect 
of  locomotion  is  nearly  as  much  to  be  wondered  at 
as  Kant's ;  I  doubt  if  he  was  ever  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  Germany. 

He  was  born  January  16th,  1789,  in  Gottingen, 
a  city  of  some  eleven  thousand  inhabitants  in  the 
kingdom  of  Hanover,  the  seat  of  a  famous  Univer- 
sity, which,  though  now  less  prominent  than  for- 
merly, has  numbered  amongst  its  professors  such 
men  as  Blumenbach,  Eichhorn,  and  Michaelis. 
His  parents  were  of  Jewish  blood  and  the  Jewish 
religion,  and  he  inherited  from  them,  in  a  strong 
degree,  both  the  peculiar  physiognomy  and  the 
distinguishing  faith  of  that  despised  but  most 
remarkable  race.  Nor  was  he  a  Jew  only  out- 


140  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

wardly ;  from  the  beginning  lie  was  marked  as  an 
Israelite  indeed,  a  true  Nathanael  soul. 

At  an  early  period  in  his  life,  his  father  having 
suffered  reverses  and  been  reduced  to  poverty,  he 
removed  with  his  parents  to  Hamburg,  a  commer- 
cial" city  on  the  Elbe,  and  one  of  the  four  free 
municipalities  of  Germany.  In  the  Hamburg 
gymnasium,  corresponding  in  rank  with  our  Ameri- 
can academies,  though  prescribing  a  wider  range 
of  studies,  he  received  his  first  public  instruction. 
It  is  related  of  him,  that  he  used  frequently  to  steal 
into  one  of  the  book-stores,  and  for  hours  together 
sit  buried  in  some  rare  and  erudite  volume.  And 
here  the  original  bent  of  his  genius  was  early 
developed ;  subtlety,  profoundness,  and  intense 
subjectivity  of  thought  were  noticed  as  the  distin- 
guishing characteristics  of  his  mind.  In  a  letter 
from  Neumann  to  Chamisso,  bearing  date  February 
llth,  1806,  when,  of  course,  he  was  only  seventeen 
years  old,  it  is  said  of  him :  "  Plato  is  his  idol,  and 
his  perpetual  watchword.  He  pores  over  that 
author  night  and  day ;  and  there  are  probably  few 
who  receive  him  so  completely  into  the  sanctuary  of 
the  soul.  It  is  surprising  to  see  how  all  this  has  been 
accomplished  without  any  influence  from  abroad. 
It  proceeds  simply  from  his  own  reflection  and  his 
innate  love  of  study.  He  has  learned  to  look  with 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  NEANDEK.  141 

indifference  upon  the  outward  world."  Such  was 
the  beginning  of  his  illustrious  career.  He  was 
thoroughly  a  Platonist.  And  it  happened  to  him, 
as  to  so  many  of  the  early  fathers  of  the  church 
before  him ;  he  was  led  from  Plato  to  Christ.  The 
honored  walks  of  the  Academy  were  exchanged  for 
the  manger  and  the  cross ;  and  so  he  passed  from 
Judaism  to  philosophy,  and  from  philosophy  to 
faith.  "  Pray  and  labor,"  writes  he  in  one  of 
his  letters,  "  let  that  be  the  bass-note,  or  rather 
praying  merely ;  for  what  else  should  a  human,  or 
even  a  superhuman  do  than  pray  ?"  This  was  the 
dawning  of  the  light.  Of  his  progress  in  the 
Christian  experience,  we  have  no  means  as  yet  of 
tracing  the  steps.  "We  only  know,  in  general,  from 
what  he  started,  and  to  what  he  came. 

In  the  April  of  1806,  he  joined  the  University 
at  Halle,  where  he  came  under  the  influence  of 
Schleiermacher,  whose  learned  and  thrilling  voice 
was  the  first  to  sound  the  return  of  infidel  Germany 
to  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus.  Schleiermacher  was 
then  thirty-eight  years  old,  in  the  first  bloom  and 
vigor  of  his  faculties,  and  made,  of  necessity,  a 
very  profound  and  durable  impression  upon  the 
young  and  ardent  Hebrew  Platonist,  who  was 
already,  in  obedience  to  his  own  impulses,  seeking 
the  way  of  life. 


14:2  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

He  had  been  in  Halle  about  six  months,  when 
the  city  was  captured  by  the  French  under  Berna- 
dotte.  The  University  was  immediately  suspended 
by  Napoleon,  and  the  students  ordered  to  disperse. 
Neander  fled,  with  one  of  his  friends,  to  Gottingen, 
the  place  of  his  birth,  where,  joining  the  University, 
he  came  under  the  instruction  of  Gesenius,  after- 
ward the  great  Hebrew  lexicographer,  then  but 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  just  commencing  his  dis- 
tinguished career.  The  manner  of  their  introduc- 
tion to  each  other  is  a  curious  bit  of  literary  history 
worth  preserving.  Gesenius  was  returning  to  Got- 
tingen from  his  native  place,  Nordhausen,  which 
was  then  in  flames,  having  been  set  fire  to  by  the 
French.  The  soldiers  of  the  broken  Prussian  army 
were  hurrying  to  their  homes.  In  the  general 
flight  and  confusion,  Gesenius  saw  two  young  men 
on  their  way  from  Halle  to  Gottingen,  one  of  whom 
had  broken  down,  unable  to  go  any  further,  and  was 
entirely  out  of  money.  He  procured  a  carriage 
for  the  unknown  young  student  and  conveyed  him  to 
Gottingen.  That  young  student  was  Meander ;  and 
this  little  adventure  led  to  a  friendship  which  lasted 
for  life,  the  gulf  which  subsequently  yawned 
between  them,  in  respect  to  matters  of  faith,  abat- 
ing nothing  of  their  mutual  respect  and  kindliness. 
"  At  first  it  was  painful  to  me,"  said  Neander, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEA^DER.  143 

writing  from  Gottingen,  "  to  be  thrown  into  this 
place  of  icy  coldness  for  the  heart.  But  now 
I  find  it  was  well,  and  thank  God  for  it.  In  no 
other  way  could  I  have  made  such  progress. 
From  every  human  mediator,  and  even  every 
agreeable  association,  must  one  be  torn  away,  in 
order  that  he  may  place  his  sole  reliance  on  the 
only  Mediator." 

In  1809  he  returned  to  Hamburg  to  become  a 
pastor.  But  the  city  had  a  small  fund  to  support 
one  of  its  theologians  as  a  lecturer  at  Heidelberg. 
This  was  wisely  appropriated  to  Meander,  who 
promised  more  as  a  scholar  than  as  a  preacher. 
Accordingly,  in  1811,  we  find  him  established  at 
Heidelberg  as  a  teacher  in  the  University,  he 
having  previously,  on  his  public  profession  of 
Christianity,  assumed  the  name  of  Neander,  deriv- 
ing it  from  the  Greek,  vioq  dvrjp,  "  a  new  man,"  to 
signify  the  entire  change  which  had  come  over 
him.  The  family  name  was  MendeL  The  year 
following  he  was  appointed  Professor  Extraor- 
dinary, which,  in  plain  English,  means  a  professor 
without  a  regular  salary  from  government,  and 
shortly  issued  his  work  on  "  The  Emperor  Julian 
and  his  Time,"  the  first  of  those  monographs 
which  awakened  the  admiration  of  his  learned 
countrymen,  and  paved  the  way  for  the  great 


144:  GUTS   OF  GENIUS. 

undertaking  of  his  life,  "  A  General  History  of  the 
Christian  Religion  and  Church." 

In  1813,  when  but  twenty-four  years  of  age,  he 
was  called  to  a  professorship  in  the  then  recently 
established  University  of  Berlin,  and  signalized  his 
removal  thither  by  a  work  on  "  St.  Bernard  and  his 
Age."  Five  years  later,  he  published  a  work  on 
Gnosticism,  and  in  1821,  his  "Life  of  Chrysostom;" 
besides  some  treatises  of  minor  note,  which  we  need 
not  pause  to  enumerate.  At  length,  in  1825,  when 
of  course  he  was  thirty-six  years  old,  the  first 
volume  of  his  General  History  of  the  Church 
appeared.  And  to  say  that  this  work  put  him 
directly  at  the  very  head  of  Christendom  as  the 
expounder  of  its  inward  life,  is  saying  only  what 
we  all  know  to  be  true.  After  that,  he  turned 
aside  occasionally  in  obedience  to  other  calls  of 
duty,  at  one  time  to  write  a  history  of  the  Apostolic 
Age,  and  at  another  the  Life  of  Christ,  but  always 
returning  to  his  General  History,  as  the  one  great 
task  appointed  him  of  God  to  do.  As  I  parted 
with  him  in  the  spring  of  1848,  my  heart  drawn 
out  toward  him  with  an  admiring  tenderness  and 
reverence,  such  as  I  had  never  experienced  toward 
any  other  living  scholar,  I  could  not  forbear 
assuring  him,  that  many  prayers  would  go  up  for 
him  in  America  as  well  as  in  Europe,  that  he  might 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  NEANDER.  14:5 

be  spared  to  complete  Ms  work.  "  I  hope  it,"  lie 
replied,  "  but  that  must  be  as  God  wills."  But 
this  wish  of  his  heart  was  denied  him.  He  died  in 
Berlin  on  Sunday,  July  14th,  1850,  in  the  midst  of 
his  unfinished  labors.  He  had  published  what 
brings  us  down  to  the  year  1294,  and  was  then  at 
work  upon  the  centuries  which  lie  between  that 
and  the  Reformation.  The  posthumous  volume, 
edited  by  Schneider,  still  falls  short,  by  nearly  a 
hundred  years,  of  that  important  epoch.  Had  he 
been  spared  to  proceed  thus  far,  we  had  been  the 
better  reconciled  to  his  dying;  although  his 
countrymen  were  anxious  to  have  him  turn  his 
peculiar  powers  upon  the  Reformation  itself,  and 
the  world- wide  movements  which  have  grown  out 
of  it.  But  this  was  not  to  be.  He  died,  leaving  no 
one  to  take  his  mantle ;  died,  too,  somewhat  pre- 
maturely, for  he  was  only  sixty-one  years  old. 

Of  his  personal  appearance,  which  was  altogether 
unique,  descriptions  have  frequently  been  given. 
He  was  small  of  stature,  his  height  not  exceeding 
five  feet  and  four  or  five  inches.  He  had  studied 
so  hard,  exercised  so  little,  eaten  so  sparingly  and 
suffered  so  much  from  imperfect  health,  that  his 
muscles  seemed  entirely  relaxed  and  flabby.  His 
hand,  when  he  gave  it  in  salutation  or  in  parting, 
was  like  that  of  a  sick  child.  But  his  hair  remained 

1 


146  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

as  black  as  a  raven.  His  brows  were  shaggy  and 
overhanging,  and  his  black  eyes,  when  ever  and 
anon  the  drooping  lids  were  lifted  away  from  them, 
shot  forth  a  very  deep  and  searching  light.  As 
one.  sat  over  against  him,  watching  his  words,  he 
might  easily  imagine  himself  gazing  through  those 
glowing  orbs  back  into  the  ages.  His  study,  up 
two  flights  of  stairs,  overlooking  one  of  the  public 
squares  of  the  city,  was  a  place  to  be  remembered. 
Its  furniture  was  a  plain  round  table,  a  standing- 
desk,  an  old  sofa  and  two  or  three  chairs.  High  up 
on  the  walls  between  the  book-shelves  and  the 
ceiling,  nearly  all  round  the  room,  hung  engraved 
portraits  of  distinguished  men ;  and  he  showed  his 
noble  catholicity  of  spirit,  in  having  the  great  men 
of  his  native  land  all  there,  without  regard  to  their 
peculiar  schools  and  sentiments.  His  library  con- 
tained about  4,000  volumes.  They  filled  the  room ; 
table,  chairs  and  sofa  were  loaded  with  them ;  they 
lay  in  stacks  upon  the  floor ;  and,  in  some  cases, 
were  piled,  two  or  three  tiers  deep,  into  the  shelves 
against  the  walls.  To  anybody  else  the  library 
would  have  been  a  chaos  ;  but  he  could  lay  his 
hand  at  once  upon  any  book  he  wished  for.  It  was 
in  this  room,  thus  crammed  with  books,  that  he 
used  to  entertain  the  little  parties  he  invited  to  sup 
with  him.  The  repast  was  always  frugal ;  the  con- 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDER.  147 

versation,  on  his  part,  such  as  might  have  gone  into 
print.  A  man-servant  brought  in  the  refreshments 
on  a  tray;  or,  sometimes,  one  of  his  pupils 
officiated.  His  only  sister,  who  kept  house  for  him 
during  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  never  made  her 
appearance  at  these  exclusively  masculine  enter- 
tainments. He  himself  rarely  paid  any  attention 
to  the  progress  of  the  meal,  but  seemed  to  be  as 
much  a  visitor  as  any  of  his  guests.  The  little  he 
needed  was  soon  dispatched,  and  his  thoughts  were 
again  afloat,  sounding  along  from  theme  to  theme. 

He  never  married,  and,  at  the  time  I  speak  of, 
was  almost  alone  in  the  world.  Neither  father,  nor 
mother,  nor  any  other  near  relative  remained  to 
him,  save  his  sister,  Johanna,  whose  care  of  him 
had  need  to  be  almost  maternal.  Well-nigh  every 
day  in  the  year  these  two  might  be  seen  walking 
out  together  to  take  the  air.  They  went  always 
arm  in  arm,  a  beautiful  embodiment  of  the  tender- 
est  affection.  Hardly  the  king  himself  attracted 
more  attention  in  the  street.  Scarcely  a  person  he 
met  failed  to  raise  his  hat  and  salute  the  venerable 
scholar  with  the  heartiest  good  will.  As  he  was 
both  short-sighted  and  suffering  from  diseased 
vision,  he  had  to  depend  upon  his  sister  to  know 
who  bowed  to  him ;  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  his 
returning  salutation  bestowed,  in  almost  every 


148  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

instance,  a  little  too  late.  Many  anecdotes  were 
afloat  in  Berlin,  and  indeed  all  over  Germany, 
going  to  illustrate  his  habits  of  abstraction  and 
absent-mindedness,  some  of  which  no  doubt  were 
true,  and  all  of  which  were  likely  enough  to  have 
been  so. 

An  exact  description  of  his  manners  in  the 
lecture-room  would,  by  any  one  who  never  saw 
him,  be  thought  a  caricature.  He  entered  the 
room  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  as  if  feeling  his 
way ;  a  student  stood  ready  to  take  his  hat  and 
overcoat  and  hang  them  up  in  their  places ;  while 
he  went  directly  to  his  stand — a  high  pine  desk ; 
threw  his  left  elbow  upon  it ;  dropped  his  head  so 
low  that  his  eyes  could  not  be  seen ;  tilted  the  desk 
over  on  its  front  legs,  so  that  you  expected  every 
moment  to  see  it  pitching  forward  into  the  lecture- 
room,  with  the  lecturer  after  it;  and,  seizing  a 
quill,  always  provided  for  the  purpose,  began  at 
once  to  speak,  and  to  twist  and  twirl  and  tear  in 
pieces  the  quill.  Sometimes,  in  the  heat  of  his 
discourse,  he  would  suddenly  jerk  up  his  head, 
whirl  entirely  round  with  his  face  to  the  wall  and 
his  back  to  the  audience,  and  then  as  suddenly 
whirl  back  again,  his  words  all  the  while  pouring 
along  in  a  perfect  torrent  of  involved  and  fervent 
thought.  Add  to  this  a  constant  writhing  and 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDEK.  149 

swinging  of  his  legs,  with  a  frequent  slight  spitting, 
produced  by  a  chronic  weakness  of  the  salivary 
glands,  and  you  have  a  picture  of  the  outward 
man  known  in  Berlin  as  John  "William  Augustus 
Neander ;  to  be  known  in  history  as  one  of  the 
most  learned,  revered  and  beloved  teachers  of  our 
century. 

"While  it  is  indispensable  to  our  full  and  lively 
appreciation  of  Meander  that  these  little  things  be 
known  of  him,  no  one  will  be  so  foolish  as  to  let 
such  accidents  and  eccentricities  of  the  outward  life 
divert  his  attention  from  the  grand  and  rarely 
equalled  manhood  which  lay  behind  and  beneath 
them.  To  give  anything  like  a  just  estimate  of  this 
manhood  would  be  no  easy  task,  however.  His 
native  endowments,  the  attainments  he  had  made  in 
the  learning  pertaining  to  his  department,  and  the 
part  he  was  called  to  play  in  the  regeneration  of  Ger- 
man science  and  German  faith,  were  all  remarkable. 
•From  the  first  glimpse  we  catch  of  him,  when,  at 
17  years  of  age,  he  had  given  his  head  and  heart 
to  Plato,  he  strikes  us  as  no  ordinary  character ; 
and  our  wonder  deepens  at  every  step,  till  at  last 
we  behold  him  sinking  exhausted  amidst  his  labors, 
and  all  Christendom  gathered  in  sorrow  around  his 
grave. 

His  native  instincts,  tastes  and  sympathies  were 


150  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

all  singularly  pure  and  generous.  His  family 
attachments  were  strong.  In  the  latest  periods  of 
his  life,  when  she  had  long  been  dead,  the  name  of 
his  mother  could  not  be  mentioned  by  him  without 
a  visible  gush  of  deep  and  tender  emotion.  The 
loss  of  his  favorite  sister,  some  years  before  his  own 
departure,  almost  shattered  him.  For  days  he 
drooped  and  mourned  amongst  his  books,  and  could 
do  no  work.  Only  the  thought  that  God  had  taken 
her  to  Himself,  and  that  He  doeth  all  things  well, 
finally  availed  to  quiet  him.  So  of  all  his  friends  ; 
he  never  forgot  and  was  never  false  to  them.  But 
his  special  care  was  bestowed  upon  the  young  men 
of  the  University,  who  had  gathered  about  him,  in 
the  spirit  of  a  most  enthusiastic  discipleship,  out  of 
all  Germany,  and  indeed  out  of  nearly  all  Christen- 
dom. To  the  last  he  continued  to  be  a  young  man 
himself,  as  fresh,  impulsive  and  eager,  and  with  as 
entire  a  freedom  from  all  appearance  of  assumption 
and  authority,  as  though  his  pupils  and  he  were- 
merely  peers.  There  was  at  once  a  warmth,  a 
blandness  and  a  child-like  simplicity  of  manners, 
which  made  him  the  idol  of  every  heart.  And  he 
carried  the  same  amenity  of  temper  into  all  the 
theological  controversies  of  his  life.  He  never 
stooped  to  ungracious  personalities,  and  never 
seemed  to  be  in  pursuit  of  victory  at  the  expense 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDER.  151 

of  truth  and  fairness.  The  result  was  that  he  was 
never  assailed  with  personalities  in  return.  Through 
all  the  bitterest  contentions  which  raged  around  him, 
he  was  uniformly  treated  with  respect  and  defer- 
ence. "Not  that  men  were  ignorant  of  his  opinions, 
or  thought  him  neutral,  but  because  he  was  felt  to 
be  an  Israelite  indeed,  in  whom  there  was  no  guile. 
He  committed  himself  to  no  clique,  and  allowed  no 
clique  to  be  committed  to  him. 

In  his  personal  habits  he  was  temperate  and  fru- 
gal in  the  extreme ;  though  not  for  the  sake  of 
accumulation.  His  income  from  his  books  and  lec- 
tures must  have  been  considerable ;  but  he  gave  it 
nearly  all  away.  Hundreds  of  indigent  students 
could  testify  to  his  generosity,  while  amongst  the 
poor  of  the  city,  there  were  many  pensioners  upon 
his  bounty. 

In  regard  to  his  intellectual  gifts  and  powers, 
their  peculiar  cast  has  already  been  intimated.  The 
dominant  feature  of  his  genius  was  its  deeply  sub- 
jective and  spiritual  character.  The  accidents  of  a 
subject  never  detained  him  for  a  moment  from  his 
search  after  the  essential  and  the  abiding.  Out- 
ward circumstances  were  of  little  interest  to  him. 
And  in  this  direction  lay  the  main  defect  of  his 
mind;  it  was  too  exclusively  Platonic,  subjective 
and  spiritual.  Had  his  profound  Germanic  intui- 


152  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

tiveness  of  vision  been  tempered  with  a  little  more 
of  our  homely  Anglo-Saxon  common  sense,  the  com- 
bination would  have  been  well-nigh  perfect. 

What,  has  just  been  said  of  his  intellectual  pecu- 
liarities will  help  us  to  understand  also  his  religious 
life.     It  was  preeminently  an  inward  life ;  a  fire  in 
the  very  marrow  of  his  being.     As  it  was  his  own 
solitary  and  independent  reflection  which  first  turn- 
ed his  feet  toward  Nazareth  and  Calvary,  so  was  it 
by  deep  and  steady  communion  with  his  own  heart 
that  he  advanced  in  sanctity.      The  natural  and 
unchanging   atmosphere   of   his  life   was  that  of 
faith  and  prayer.     His  religious   experience  was 
rooted  in  peculiarly  deep  and  pungent  views  of  sin. 
Not  that  he  had    gross  outward  offences :  to  be 
ashamed  of ;   but  he  felt  the  law  of  evil  working 
within  him,  disturbing  his  peace;  and  he  longed 
for  the  serenity  of  a  child  of  God.    Thus  did  he 
learn  his  need  of  Christ.     His  pupils  relate  with 
much  interest  how,  on  the  evening  of  one  of  his 
birth-day  festivals,  when  they  were  gathered  at  his 
house,  he  spoke  to  them  of  his  own  spiritual  infirm- 
ities, and  with  trembling  voice  confessed  himself 
a  poor  sinner  seeking  forgiveness  through  atoning 
blood.    Theologically,  he  was  comparatively  indif- 
ferent in  regard  to  minor  points ;  but  he  clung  with 
the  tenacity  of  a  martyr's  faith  to  the  great  essen- 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDER.  153 

tials  of  the  Gospel.  His  religious  life  was  therefore 
at  once  very  fervent  and  very  catholic.  Loving 
Christ  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  passion,  he  loved 
with  a  generous  latitude  of  heart  all  those  of  every 
name  in  whom  he  discerned  Christ's  image.  The 
motto  adopted  by  him  as  best  describing  his  own 
aim  and  method,  was  that  of  St.  Augustine  :  "  Pec- 
tus  est  quod  facit  theologum."  It  is  the  heart 
which  makes  the  theologian.  It  was  a  Divine  Form, 
for  which  he  was  ever  seeking,  while  he  walked 
about  amongst  men,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
centuries  of  our  Christian  faith,  murmuring  to  him- 
self: "  It  is  the  Lord." 

As  a  writer  of  church  history,  his  first  great 
claim  to  gratitude  is  on  account  of  the  living  pulse 
of  faith  and  love  which  beats  through  all  his  pages. 
He  traces  the  golden  thread  of  Christian  life 
through  the  darkest  centuries.  He  does  much  to 
save  the  church  of  God  from  reproach,  and  God's 
own  gracious  promise  from  contempt,  by  showing 
how  much  there  has  been  of  Christian  grace  and 
truth  under  the  worst  forms  and  in  the  worst  ages. 
He  has  thus  made  his  History  what  he  said  it 
should  be,  "  a  speaking  proof  of  the  Divine  power 
of  Christianity,  a  school  of  Christian  experience, 
and  a  voice  of  edification  and  warning  sounding 
through  all  ages  for  all  who  are  willing  to  believe." 
1* 


154  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Of  the  original  sources  of  history,  particularly  for 
the  earlier  centuries,  his  knowledge  was  profound, 
and  his  use  of  them  masterly.  How  thorough  and 
how  fair  he  is,  can  be  fully  appreciated  only  by 
those  who  explore  for  themselves  the  fountains 
from  which  he  drew  his  materials.  His  chief  defect 
is  in  the  matter  of  form.  He  had  but  little  dra- 
matic power.  He  gives  us  the  inward  life,  but  not 
the  outward  stir  and  shock  of  history.  Nor  is  he 
remarkable  for  analytical  sharpness  in  his  delinea- 
tion of  the  growth  of  Christian  doctrine.  It  is  in 
the  sphere  of  experience  and  life  that  he  succeeds 
the  best.  His  own  doctrinal  views  were  not,  at  all 
points,  quite  up  to  our  English  and  American 
standards  of  orthodoxy.  But  these  points  were  of 
minor  importance.  All  that  is  cardinal  was 
precious  to  him.  With  peculiar  fidelity  did  he 
cling  to  the  Head,  which  is  Christ,  and  was  full  of 
that  faith  which  conquers  the  world  and  saves  the 
soul. 

His  last  days,  as  described  by  his  friends  and 
pupils,  were  in  marked  keeping  with  his  whole 
career.  On  Monday,  the  8th  of  July,  at  11  o'clock, 
he  lectured  at  the  University.  But  he  had  been 
for  some  time  back  much  feebler  than  usual,  the 
weather  was  sultry  and  debilitating,  and  his  system 
was  out  of  tune.  His  voice  failed  him  two  or 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDER.  155 

three  times  in  the  course  of  the  lecture,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  desperate  struggle  that  he  got  to  the 
end ;  his  strength  barely  sufficing  to  bring  him 
home.  The  impression  upon  his  class  was  such, 
that  one  of  the  students,  turning  to  his  neighbor, 
said :  "  This  is  the  last  lecture  of  our  Neander." 
Immediately  after  dinner,  which  he  scarcely  tasted, 
his  reader  came.  He  dictated  on  his  Church 
History  three  hours  in  succession,  repressing  by 
force  of  will  the  rising  groans,  his  debility  all  the 
while  increasing.  At  5  o'clock  the  symptoms  of  a 
dangerous  illness  appeared;  but  he  would  not 
abandon  his  work.  His  sister,  who  came  to 
expostulate  with  him  and  warn  him  against  further 
effort,  was  sent  impatiently  away.  "  Let  me 
alone,"  he  said ;  "  every  laborer,  I  hope,  may  work 
if  he  wishes ;  wilt  thou  not  grant  me  this  ?"  At 
seven  he  was  compelled  to  pause.  His  reader  gone, 
his  first  thought  was  to  call  back  his  much  loved 
sister,  and  say  to  her:  "Be  not  anxious,  dear 
Jenny,  it  is  passing  away;  I  know  my  constitu- 
tion." But  his  physicians  were  agreed  in  the 
opinion  that  the  very  worst  was  to  be  feared.  They 
succeeded,  however,  in  subduing  the  symptoms  of 
the  disease,  which  was  a  violent  cholera,  and  began 
to  hope.  The  next  morning,  having  hardly  got 
breath  from  this  first  furious  attack,  he  inquired 


GIFTS    OF    GENIUS. 

with  touching  sadness,  "shall  I  not  be  able  to 
lecture  to-day  ?"  When  answered  in  the  negative, 
he  distinctly  demanded  that  the  suspension  should 
be  only  for  that  one  day.  In  the  afternoon  of 
Tuesday,  he  called  out  vehemently  for  his  reader, 
desired  him  to  go  on  with  Hitter's  -Palestine,  with 
which  he  had  been  occupied,  and  impatiently 
blamed  the  anxiety  of  his  friends  who  had  dis- 
missed his  assistant  too  hastily.  He  then,  accord- 
ing to  his  daily  custom,  had  another  of  his  pupils 
read  to  him  the  newspaper.  He  followed  the 
reading  with  lively  attention,  making  his  remarks 
now  of  agreement  and  now  of  dissent,  till  at  length 
he  fell  asleep,  and  so  ended  the  day's  work.  Later 
in  the  afternoon,  while  racked  with  pain,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  his  sister  might  think  of  foregoing  sleep 
on  his  account,  which  he  begged  her  not  to  do. 
Wednesday  he  had  the  newspaper  read  to  him,  and 
made  his  comments,  as  usual.  Thursday  night 
brought  with  it  a  convulsive  hiccough.  Friday,  his 
spirit  was  clear,  peaceful  and  full  of  love.  But 
Friday  night  extinguished  the  last  hopes  of  his 
friends.  The  pains  he  endured  were  excruciating. 
With  an  indescribably  affecting  and  deeply  tender 
voice,  before  which  no  eye  remained  tearless,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Would  to  God  I  could  sleep."  Satur- 
day he  was  clamorous  for  the  servant  to  bring  him 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   NEANDEK.  157 

his  clothes,  that  he  might  dress  and  go  about  his 
work.  His  sister  came :  "  Think,  dear  August, 
what  thou  hast  said  to  me  when  I  have  rebelled 
against  the  directions  of  the  physician,  clt  comes 
from  God,  therefore  must  we  acquiesce  in  it.": 
"That  is  true,"  answered  quickly  the  softened 
voice,  "  it  all  comes  from  God,  and  we  must  thank 
him  for  it."  During  the  day  he  asked  to  be  taken 
into  the  study.  The  sweet  sunlight,  streaming  on 
his  nearly  blinded  eyes,  refreshed  and  gladdened 
him.  After  this,  a  bath  of  wine  and  strengthening 
herbs  was  administered,  which  seemed  to  do  him 
good.  Finding  himself  amongst  his  books  again, 
he  rose  upon  the  cushions  which  supported  him, 
and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  began  a  lecture  upon 
the  New  Testament,  and  announced  for  the  coming 
term  a  course  of  lectures  upon  the  Gospel  of  John. 
At  half-past  nine,  having  inquired  the  hour,  he  fell 
asleep.  "When  he  awoke,  it  was  Sunday.  There 
came  back  a  gush  of  bodily  strength,  the  last 
leaping  of  the  light  before  it  nickered  in  the  socket. 
Taking  up  the  thread  of  his  history  where  he  had 
dropped  it  two  days  before,  he  began  to  dictate  for 
some  one  to  write.  The  passage  was  about  the 
mystics  of  the  14th  and  15th  centuries.  The 
concluding  sentence  was :  "  So  it  was  in  general ; 
the  further  development  is  to  follow."  Then  turn- 


158  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

ing  to  his  sister,  he  said  :  "  I  am  tired ;  let  us  make 
ready  to  go  home ;"  as  though  they  were  some- 
where on  a  long  and  wearisome  journey.  And 
then  rallying  his  last  energies  in  one  parting  word 
of  tenderness  to  her  who  was  bending  over  him 
with  a  breaking  heart,  he  murmured,  "  Good 
night,"  and  died. 

Thus  he  died  with  his  harness  on,  not  aware, 
probably,  that  he  was  so  near  his  end ;  else  he 
might  have  uttered  some  dying  testimony,  which 
would  have  passed  into  the  literature  of  the  church 
to  be  the  comfort  of  other  saints  in  their  mortal 
agony.  But,  on  his  own  account,  no  such  dying 
testimony  was  required.  For  thirty-seven  years 
he  had  stood  his  ground  gallantly  in  Berlin, 
witnessing  for  Christ  in  the  face  of  a  learned 
skepticism,  and  he  could  well  afford  to  pass  directly, 
without  an  interlude,  from  the  toils  and  conflicts 
of  earth  to  the  joys  and  triumphs  of  the  redeemed 
in  heaven. 

His  labors  had  been  prodigious.  He  usually 
lectured  not  less  than  fifteen  times  a  week,  pub- 
lished twenty-five  volumes,  and  left  behind  him 
•several  other  volumes  nearly  ready  for  the  press. 
His  health  was  never  firm.  A  rheumatic  disease 
lurked  in  his  system  from  the  time  of  his  illness 
at  Gottingen.  Three  years  before  he  died,  this 


EECOLLECTIONS   OF   NEANDEK.  159 

disease  settled  in  his  eyes,  and  made  him  nearly 
blind.  But  against  all  impediments,  lie  struggled 
on,  fighting  the  good  fight  of  faith,  patient  and 
resolute,  till  suddenly  his  course  was  finished,  and 
he  took  his  crown. 


POEMS. 

BY     JULIA     WARD     HOWE. 
I. 

THE  BEE'S  SONG 

Do  not  tie  my  wings, 
Says  the  honey-bee ; 
Do  not  bind  my  wings, 
Leave  them  glad  and  free. 
If  I  fly  abroad, 
If  I  keep  afar, 
Humming  all  the  day. 
Where  wild  blossoms  are, 
'Tis  to  bring  you  sweets, 
Rich  as  summer  joy, 
Clear — as  gold  and  glass  ; 
The  divinest  toy 
That  the  god's  have  left, 
Is  the  pretty  hive, 
Where  a  maiden  reigns, 
And  the  busy  thrive. 


POEMS.  161 

If  you  bar  my  way, 
Your  delight  is  gone, 
No  more  honey-gems ; 
From  the  heather  borne  ; 
No  more  tiny  thefts, 
From  your  neighbor's  rose, 
Who  were  glad  to  guess 
Where  its  sweetness  goes. 

Let  the  man  of  arts 
Ply  his  plane  and  glass ; 
Let  the  vapors  rise, 
Let  the  liquor  pass  ; 
Let  the  dusky  slave 
Till  the  southern  fields  ; 
Not  the  task  of  both 
Such  a  treasure  yields  ; 
Honey,  Pan  ordained, 
Food  for  gods  and  men, 
Only  in  my  way 
Shall  you  store  again. 

Leave  me  to  my  will 
While  the  bright  days  glov 
While  the  sleepy  flowers 
Quicken  as  I  go. 
When  the  pretty  ones 


162  GIFfS    OF   GENIUS. 

Look  to  me  no  more, 
Dead,  beneath  your  feet, 
Crushed  and  dabbled  o'er ; 
In  my  narrow  cell 
I  will  fold  my  wing ; 
Sink  in  dark  and  chill, 
A  forgotten  thing. 

Can  you  read  the  song 
Of  the  suppliant  bee  ? 
"Tis  a  poet's  soul, 
Asking  liberty. 


II. 
LIMITATIONS   OF  BENEVOLENCE. 

"  THE  beggar  boy  is  none  of  mine," 
The  reverend  doctor  strangely  said  ; 

"  I  do  not  walk  the  streets  to  pour 
Chance  benedictions  on  his  head. 

"  And  heaven  I  thank  who  made  me  so. 

That  toying  with  my  own  dear  child, 
I  think  not  on  his  shivering  limbs, 
His  manners  vagabond  and  wild." 


POEMS.  163 

Good  friend,  unsay  that  graceless  word ! 

I  am  a  mother  crowned  with  joy, 
And  yet  I  feel  a  bosom  pang 

To  pass  the  little  starveling  boy. 

His  aching  flesh,  his  fevered  eyes 
His  piteous  stomach,  craving  meat ; 

His  features,  nipt  of  tenderness, 
And  most,  his  little  frozen  feet. 

Oft,  by  my  fireside's  ruddy  glow, 
I  think,  how  in  some  noisome  den, 

Bred  up  with  curses  and  with  blows, 
He  lives  unblest  of  gods  or  men. 

I  cannot  snatch  him  from  his  fate, 
The  tribute  of  my  doubting  mind 

Drops,  torch-like,  in  the- abyss  of  ill, 
That  skirts  the  ways  of  humankind. 

But,  as  my  heart's  desire  would  leap 
To  help  him,  recognized  of  none, 

I  thank  the  God  who  left  him  this, 
For  many  a  precious  right  foregone. 

My  mother,  whom  I  scarcely  knew, 
Bequeathed  this  bond  of  love  to  me ; 

The  heart  parental  thrills  for  all 
The  children  of  humanity. 


EABTH'S    WITNESS. 

BY   ALICE  B.    HAVEN. 

THAT  Poet  wrongs  his  soul,  whose  dreary  cry 
Calls  "winds  "  and  "  waves,"  and  "  burning  stars 

of  night" 
To  bring  our  darkness  nature's  clearer  light 

On  that  just  sentence,  "  Thou  shalt  surely  die ;" 

To  track  the  spirit  as  it  leaves  its  clay 
To  bring  back  surety  of  its  future  home, 
Or  echo  of  the  voice  that  calleth  "  come," 

To  prove  that  it  is  borne  to  perfect  day. 

Say  rather,  "  winds,"  who  heard  the  Master  speak, 
And  "  waves,"  who  by  His  voice  transfixed  were 

stayed, 
And  stars  that  lighted  Christ's  deep  shade — 

Your  confirmation  of  our  trust  we  seek. 

Ye  know  how  shadowy  Death's  dreary  prison, 
Because  ye  witnessed  Christ  our  life,  up  risen. 

THE  WILLOWS,  1858. 


161 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  THANKSGIVING. 

BY   THE   REV.    HENRY   W.    BELLOWS,    D.D. 

WHEN  cellar  and  barn  and  storehouse  were  filled 
with  food  for  the  coming  winter,  our  pious  New 
England  forefathers  used  their  first  common  leisure 
to  make  public  and  joyful  acknowledgment  of  their 
blessings  to  the  God  of  sunshine  and  of  rain;  to 
Him,  who  clothes  the  valleys  with  corn,  and  the 
hills  with  flocks.  Almost  universally,  they  placed 
the  meeting-houses,  where  these  thanks  were  ren- 
dered, on  the  hill-top  commanding  the  widest  view 
of  the  fields  from  which  their  prosperity  sprung, 
and  nearest  to  the  sky,  whence  their  blessings  came. 
Their  modest  homes  were  sheltered  from  the  winds 
by  the  barns  that  held  their  wealth  and  over- 
shadowed their  low  dwellings.  The  earth  was 
precious  in  their  eyes,  as  the  source  of  their  living. 
They  could  spare  no  fertile  or  sheltered  spot,  even 
for  the  burial-ground,  but  economically  laid  it  out 
in  the  sand,  or  on  the  bleak  hill- side ;  while  they 
threw  away  no  fencing  on  the  house  of  God,  but 

1G5 


166  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

jealously  preserved  that  costly  distinction  for  their 
arable  lands  and  orchards.  They  were  farmers ; 
and  it  was  no  unmeaning  thing  for  them  to  keep 
the  harvest  feast.  They  had  prayed  in  drought, 
with  all  faith  and  fervor,  for  the  blessing  of  rain ; 
in  seed-time,  for  the  favoring  sunshine  and  soft 
showers ;  and  in  harvest,  that  blight  and  frost  might 
spare  their  corn  ;  and  when  in  the  late  autumn,  all 
their  prayers  had  been  heard,  and  their  hands  and 
homes  were  crowned  with  plenty,  their  thanks- 
giving anthem  was  an  incense  of  the  heart,  and 
their  honored  pastors  knew  not  how  to  pour  out  a 
flood  of  gratitude  too  copious  for  the  thankful 
people's  "  Amen."  A  full  hour's  prayer  wearied 
not  their  patient  knees ;  and  the  sermon,  with  its 
sixteenthly,  finally,  and  to  conclude  (before  the 
improvement,  itself  a  modern  sermon  in  length),  did 
not  outmeasure  the  people's  honest  sense  of  their 
grounds  of  thankfulness  to  God. 

The  landscape  appropriate  to  thanksgiving  is  not 
furnished  by  brick  walls  and  stone  pavements.  It 
is  a  rural  festival.  The  smoke  from  scattered 
cottages  should  be  slowly  curling  its  way  through 
frosty  air.  As  we  look  forth  from  the  low  porch 
of  the  homestead,  the  ground  lightly  covered  with 
snow,  stretches  off  to  a  not  distant  horizon,  broken 
irregularly  with  hills,  clothed  in  spots  with  ever- 


1'HE  NEW  ENGLAND  THANKSGIVING.      167 

greens,  but  oftener  with  bare  woods.  The  distant 
and  infrequent  sleigh-bells,  with  the  smart  crack  of 
the  rifle  from  the  shooting  match  in  the  hollow, 
strike  percussively  upon  the  ear.  Yast  piles  of 
fuel,  part  neatly  corded,  part  lying  in  huge  logs, 
with  heaps  of  brush,  barricade  the  brown,  paintless 
farmhouses.  Swine,  hanging  by  the  ham-strings 
in  the  neighboring  shed ;  the  barn-yard  speckled 
with  the  ruffled  poultry,  some  sedate  with  recent 
bereavement,  others  cackling  with  a  dim  sense  of 
temporary  reprieve ;  the  rough-coated  steer  butting 
in  the  fold,  where  the  timid  sheep  huddle  together 
in  the  corner;  little  boys  on  a  single  skate  improv- 
ing the  newly  frozen  horse-pond — these  furnish  the 
foreground  of  the  picture  during  the  earlier  hours 
of  the  morning.  Later  in  the  day,  without,  the 
sound  of  church  bells,  the  farmers'  pungs,  or  the 
double  sleighs,  with  incredible  numbers  stowed  in 
their  strawed  bottoms,  drive  up  to  the  meeting- 
house door.  An  occasional  wagon  from  the  hills, 
from  which  the  snow  has  blown,  with  the  crunch- 
ing, whistling  sound  of  wheels  upon  snow,  sets 
the  teeth  of  the  crowd  in  the  porch  on  edge,  as  it 
grinds  its  way  to  the  stone  steps  to  deposit  its  load. 
Great  white  coats,  with  seven  or  eight  capes  apiece, 
dismount,  and  muffs  and  moccasins — each  a  whole 
bearskin — follow.  Long  stoves,  with  live  coals 


168  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

got  at  the  neighboring  houses,  occasionally  join  the 
procession.  Few  come  afoot ;  for  our  pious  ances- 
tors seemed  to  think  it  as  much  a  part  of  their 
religion  to  fill  the  family  horse-shed  as  the  family 
pew ;  and  in  good  weather  would  send  a  mile  to 
pasture  for  the  horses  to  drive  a  half  mile  to 
meeting.  But,  meeting  out,  the  parson's  prayer 
and  sermon  said,  the  choir's  ambitious  anthem 
lustily  sung,  the  politics  of  the  prayer,  and  the 
politics  of  the  sermon,  both  summarily  criticised, 
approved,  condemned,  partly  with  looks  and  winks, 
and  partly  with  loud  words  in  the  porch,  there  is 
now  a  little  space  for  kind  inquiries  after  the  absent, 
the  sick,  and  the  poor ;  a  few  solitary  spinsters,  and 
one  old  soldier,  lame  and  indigent,  are  seized  on 
and  carried  off  to  homes,  where  certain  blessed 
Mothers  in  Israel,  are  wont  to  keep  a  vacant  chair 
for  a  poor  soul  that  might  feel  desolate  if  left  alone 
on  this  sociable  day.  Some  full-handed  visits  are 
paid  on  the  way  home  to  scattered  and  rickety 
houses;  but  by  one  o'clock,  all  the  people  are 
beneath  their  own  roofs,  never  so  attractive  as  on 
this  glorious  day.  The  married  children  from  the 
neighboring  towns  have  come  home,  and  the  old 
house  is  full. 

The  great  event  of  the  day  is  at  hand.     It  is  din- 
ner-time.   The  table  of  unnatural  length,  narrower 


THE   NEW  ENGLAND   THANKSGIVING.  169 

at  one  end,  where  it  has  been  eked  out  for  the  occa- 
sion, groans  with  the  choicest  gifts  of  the  year. 
There  is  but  one  course,  but  that  possesses  infinite 
variety  and  reckless  profusion.  For  one  day,  at 
least,  the  doctrine  of  an  apostle  is  in  full  honor. 
"  For  every  creature  of  God  is  good,  and  nothing 
to  be  refused,  if  it  be  received  with  thanksgiving." 
The  long  grace  sanctifies  the  feast  with  the  word  of 
God  and  with  prayer.  The  elders  and  males  are 
distributed  to  front  the  substantiate  of  the  board — 
the  round  of  arlarmode^  the  brown  crisp  pig  with 
an  apple  in  his  mouth,  the  great  turkey  who  has 
frightened  the  little  red-cloaked  girls  and  saucy 
pugs  for  months  past,  the  chicken-pie  with  infinite 
crimping  and  stars  and  knobs,  decorating  its  snowy 
face.  The  mothers  and  daughters  are  placed  over 
against  the  puddings  and  pies,  which  have  exer- 
cised their  ambition  for  weeks — vying  with  rival 
housekeepers  in  the  number  and  variety  of  sorts — 
and  which,  after  the  faint  impression  made  on 
them  to-day,  shall  be  found  for  a  month,  filling  the 
shelves  of  spare-closets  and  lending  a  delicious 
though  slightly  musty  odor  to  the  best  ward- 
robe of  the  family.  Children  of  all  ages — to  the 
toddling  darling,  the  last  babe  of  the  youngest 
daughter — fill  up  the  interstices,  while  the  few 
books  in  the  house  are  barely  sufficient  to  bring  the 

8 


170  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

little  ones  in  their  low  chairs  to  an  effective  level 
with  the  table.  Incredible  stowage  having  been 
effected,  the  sleepy  after-dinner  hours  are  somewhat 
heavily  passed ;  but  with  the  lamps  and  the  tea- 
board,  sociability  revives.  The  evening  passes 
among  the  old  people,  with  chequers  and  back-gam- 
mon. Puss-in-the-corner,  the  game  of  forfeits — blind- 
man's-buff  entertain  the  young  folks.  Apples,  nuts 
and  cider  come  in  at  nine  o'clock,  and  perhaps  a 
mug  of  flip — but  it  is  rather  for  form's  sake  than 
for  appetite.  At  ten  o'clock  the  fire  is  raked  up, 
and  the  household  is  a-bed.  Excepting  some  bad- 
dreams,  Thanksgiving  day  is  over. 


SONG  OF  THE  AKCHANGELS 

(FBOM  GOETHE'S  FAUST.) 
BY   GEORGE  P.   MARSH. 

RAPHAEL. 

E'EN  as  at  first,  in  rival  song 

Of  brother  orbs,  still  chimes  the  SUN, 
And  his  appointed  path  along 

Rolls  with  harmonious  thundertone ; 
With  strength  the  sight  doth  Angels  fill, 

Though  none  can  solve  its  law  divine ; 
Creation's  wonders  glorious  still, 

As  erst  they  shone,  eternal  shine. 

GABRIEL. 

THE  gorgeous  EARTH  doth  whirl  for  aye 
In  swift,  sublime,  mysterious  flight, 

And  alternates  elysian  day 

"With  deep,  chaotic,  shuddering  night ; 

With  swelling  billows  foams  the  sea, 
Chafing  the  cliff's  deep-rooted  base, 

While  sea  and  cliff  both  hurrying  flee 

In  swift,  eternal,  circling  race. 

in 


172  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

MICHAEL. 

AND  howling  TEMPESTS  scour  amain 
From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 

And,  raging,  weave  around  a  chain 
•  Of  deepest,  wildest  energy ; 

The  scathing  bolt  with  flashing  glare 
Precedes  the  pealing  thunder's  way ; 

And  yet  Thine  Angels,  LORD,  revere 
The  gentle  movement  of  Thy  day. 

TKIO. 
WITH  strength  the  sight  doth  Angels  fill, 

For  power  to  fathom  THEE  hath  none. 
.     The  works  of  Thy  supernal  will 

Still  glorious  shine,  as  erst  they  shone. 


V.  NIGHT  AND  DAY  AT  YALPAEAISO. 

BY  EOBEET  TOMES. 

As  night  came  on,  the  steamer  doubled  the 
rocky  cape,  and,  steaming  with  all  its  engine  force, 
stood  right  for  Valparaiso.  Her  speed  soon  slack- 
ened, and  she  began  to  feel  her  way  cautiously, 
going  ahead,  backing,  turning,  and  coining  to  a  full 
stop.  "  Let  go  the  anchor,"  was  now  the  word,  fol- 
lowed by  a  hoarse  rumble  of  the  chains  and  a  noisy 
burst  of  steam.  A  fleet  of  shadowy  ships  and 
small  craft  surrounded  us,  and  ahead  glimmered 
the  lights  of  the  city,  which,  irregularly  scattered 
about  the  dark  hill-sides,  appeared  in  the  night  like 
so  many  stars  dimly  twinkling  through  a  broken 
rain  cloud.  With  the  quick  instinct  of  the  pre- 
sence of  a  stranger,  the  dogs  became  at  once 
conscious  of  our  arrival,  and  began  a  noisy  welcome 
of  barks  and  yelps,  which  continued  throughout  the 
night.  The  port  officials  in  tarnished  gilt  came 
alongside  the  steamer,  had  their  talk  with  the  cap- 
tain and  pushed  off  again.  Two  or  three  gusty-look- 

173 


174:  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

ing  sea-captains  boarded  us,  gave  their  rough 
grasps  of  welcome,  drank  off  their  stiff  supplies  of 
grog,  and  pulled  back  to  their  ships.  Some  few  of 
the  more  impatient  of  our  comrades  turned  out  from 
the  bottom  of  their  trunks  their  "  best,"  and  went 
ashore  in  glossy  coats  and  shining  boots.  Most  of 
us,  however,  awaited  the  coming  of  the  morning. 

I  was  up  on  deck  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day. 
The  steamer  was  at  anchor  close  before  the  city, 
and  I  looked  with  no  admiring  eyes  upon  its  flimsy 
white-washed  houses  and  wooden  spires,  scattered 
aboiit  the  base  and  sides  of  the  cindery,  earth- 
quaky  hills  upon  which  it  is  built.  There  was 
hardly  a  blade  of  grass  or  tree  to  be  seen  anywhere, 
except  where  the  thriving  European  and  American 
residents  had  perched  themselves  on  one  of  the 
acclivities.  The  dwarfed  trees  here,  moreover, 
all  in  a  row  before  the  little  painted  bird-cage- 
looking  houses,  appeared  to  have  no  more  life  of 
growth  and  color  in  them  than  so  many  painted 
semblances  in  a  toy  village.  Familiar  looking 
shanties,  of  the  tumble-down  sort,  built  of  pine 
wood  and  shingles,  crowded  the  ground  by  the 
water  side,  and  indeed  the  low  land  seemed  better 
suited  to  their  staggering  aspect  than  the  steep 
acclivities.  Painted  signs  with  English  names  and 
English  words,  stared  familiarly  from  every  building. 


A  NIGHT  AND  DAY  AT   VALPARAISO.  175 

The  universal  "John  Smith"  there  conspicuously 
posted  his  name  and  his  "  Bakery."  Mine  host  of 
the  "  Hole  in  the  Wall "  invited  the  thirsty  in  good 
round  Saxon  to  drink  of  his  "  Best  Beer  on  Tap," 
or  his  "Bottled  Porter,"  as  "you  pays  your  money 
and  take  your  choice." 

The  steamer  was  enlivened  from  the  earliest  hour 
by  the  native  fishermen,  who,  with  their  fleet  of 
canoes,  had  sought  the  shades  of  our  dark  hull,  to 
protect  them  from  the  hot  sun,  which  seemed  to  be 
fairly  simmering  the  waters  of  the  bay.  They  were 
making  most  miraculous  draughts  of  fishes.  I  watch- 
ed one  little  fellow.  He  was  hardly  a  dozen  years 
of  age,  'but  he  plied  his  trade  with  such  skill  and 
enterprise,  that  he  nearly  filled  his  canoe  during  the 
half  hour  I  was  watching  him.  It  was  terrible  to 
see  with  what  intense  energy  and  cruelty  the  little 
yellow  devil,  with  bared  arms  blooded  to  the 
shoulders,  pounced  upon  his  prey.  With  a  quick 
jerk  he  pulled  his  fish  in,  then  clutching  it  with  one 
hand  and  thrusting  the  fingers  of  the  other  with  the 
prompt  ferocity  of  a  young  tiger  into  the  panting 
gills,  he  tore  oif  with  a  single  wrench  the  head,  and 
threw  the  body,  yet  quivering  with  life,  among  the 
lifeless  heap  of  his  victims  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
his  boat.  The  sea  gulls,  hovering  about  shrieking 
shrilly  and  pouncing  upon  the  heads  and  entrails  as 


176  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

they  were  thrown  into  the  water,  fighting  over 
them  and  gulping  them  down  with  hungry  voracity, 
seemed  to  heighten  this  picture  of  the  "  Gentle  art 
of  angling." 

The  return  of  the  steward  and  chaplain  with  a 
boat  load  of  "  marketing  "  was  a  welcome  surprise. 
The  parson,  whose  unquestionable  taste  in  the  aesthe- 
tics of  eating  had  been  wisely  secured  by  the 
steward,  dilated  with  great  gusto  upon  the  juicy 
beefsteaks,  the  freshness  of  the  fish,  and  the  rich- 
ness of  the  fruit.  When,  at  breakfast,  we  enjoyed 
as  salt-sea  voyagers  only  could,  the  stores  of  fresh 
meat,  fresh  eggs,  fresh  butter,  fresh  milk,  juicy 
grapes,  white  and  purple,  with  the  morning's  bloom 
still  upon  them,  the  peaches,  the  apples,  the  pears, 
the  tumas  (prickly  pear  fruit)  the  melons,  musk  and 
water,  we  acknowledged  his  reverence's  judgment, 
and  gratefully  thanked  him  for  his  services. 

On  landing  to  take  a  look  at  the  town,  I  made 
my  way  through  a  throng  of  boatmen,  of  pictu- 
resque native  fruitsellers  and  loitering  sailors,  to 
the  chief  business  street,  which  ran  along  the  shore. 
The  stores,  which  were  mainly  under  the  pro- 
prietorship of  the  foreign  merchants,  had  a  rich, 
thriving  look,  being  crammed  full  of  miscellaneous 
goods,  while  the  sidewalks  were  heaped  with  bales 
and  boxes.  Odd-looking  carts  moved  slowly  along 


A   NIGHT   AND   DAY   AT   VALPARAISO.  177 

with  their  drivers  in  picturesque  costume  lying  in 
full  length  upon  their  loads,  smoking  their  ciga- 
rettes, and  looking  wondrously  lazy  and  happy. 
Stately  Chilians  from  the  interior,  dressed  in 
genuine  Fra  Diavolo  style,  rode  by  on  their  pran- 
cing horses,  all  glistening  and  jingling  with  silver. 
There  were  abundant  loungers  about,  in  the  cool 
shade  of  every  corner  and  projecting  roof.  The 
listless  men  with  the  universal  poncho — an  oblong 
mantle  of  variegated  cotton  or  woollen,  through  a 
hole  in  the  centre  of  which  the  head  is  thrust, 
allowing  the  garment  to  hang  in  folds  about  the 
person — looked  as  if  they  had  been  roused  suddenly 
from  their  beds,  and  not  finding  their  coats  at 
hand,  had  walked  out  with  their  coverlets  over 
their  shoulders.  The  women,  too,  in  their  loose 
dresses  and  with  shawls  thrown  carelessly  over 
their  heads,  had  a  very  bed-chamber  look.  They 
were  mostly  pretty  brunettes,  with  large,  slumber- 
ing black  eyes,  which,  however,  were  sufficiently 
awake  to  ogle  effectively. 

Having  a  letter  of  introduction  to  present,  I 
entered  the  counting-house  of  the  merchant  whose 
acquaintance  I  sought.  I  found  him  boxed  off  at 
the  further  end  of  his  long,  heaped-up  warehouse. 
He  had  closed  his  ledger,  lighted  his  cigar,  and 
had  just  filled  his  glass  from  a  bottle  of  wine  which 
8* 


178  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

stood  on  the  window-sill,  when  I  entered.  I  was 
not  surprised,  under  such  provocation  to  good 
fellowship,  to  receive  a  warm  welcome.  My  mer- 
cantile friend  was  in  the  best  possible  humor,  for 
times",  he  said,  were  very  good.  Every  one  at 
Valparaiso  was  making  his  fortune.  It  was  the 
epoch  of  the  gold  excitement.  Large  fortunes  had 
already  been  made.  The  contents  of  the  shops  ana 
warehouses  had,  as  soon  as  the  gold  discovery 
became  known,  been  emptied  into  every  vessel  in 
the  harbor,  and  sent  to  San  Francisco.  The  lucky 
speculators  had  gained  five  or  six  hundred  per  cent, 
profit  for  their  ventures  of  preserved  and  dried 
fruits,  champagne,  other  wines  and  liquors,  Madeira 
nuts  and  the  most  paltry  stuff  imaginable.  In  five 
months  some  of  the  Valparaiso  merchants  had 
cleared  five  hundred  thousand  dollars.  The  ex- 
citement was  still  unabated.  Shippers  were  still 
loading  and  dispatching  their  goods  daily  for  San 
Francisco.  Many  were  going  there  themselves, 
and  hardly  a  clerk  could  be  kept  at  Valparaiso  at 
any  salary,  however  large. 

The  day  was  brilliantly  bright,  and  the  air  so 
pure  and  bracing  that  it  did  the  lungs  good  to 
breathe.  So  I  made  my  way  out  of  counting-house 
and  street  for  a  walk.  I  ascended  the  dry,  crumb- 
ling hills  which  with  long,  deep  gullies  and  breaks 


A  NIGHT  AND   DAT  AT  VALPARAISO.  179 

in  them,  and  friable  soil,  looked  as  if  they  were 
ready  to  tumble  into  pieces  at  the  first  shake  of  one 
of  those  earthquakes  so  frequent  in  the  country. 
On  the  road,  chained  gangs  of  surly  convicts  were 
at  work,  and  some  smart-looking  soldiers,  in  blue 
and  white,  came  marching  along!  Caravans  of 
mules,  laden  with  goods,  produce  and  water  casks, 
trotted  on,  and  here  and  there  rode  a  dashing  Chi- 
lian cavalier  on  his  prancing  steed,  or  a  dapper  citi- 
zen on  his  steady  cob.  In  a  ravine  between  the 
dry  hills  there  trickled  the  smallest  possible  stream. 
Above,  some  water  carriers  were  slowly  filling  their 
casks,  while  the  mules  patiently  waited  for  their 
burdens ;  below,  was  a  throng  of  washerwomen, 
beating  their  clothes  upon  the  stones,  just  moistened 
by  the  scant  water  which  flowed  over  them,  and 
interchanging  Spanish  Billingsgate  with  each  other 
and  a  gang  of  man-of-war  sailors. 

Frightened  away  by  the  stony  stare  of  the  Eng- 
lish occupant  from  an  imposing-looking  residence 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  I  crossed  the  road  and  entered 
the  private  hospital.  Around  a  quadrangle,  laid 
out  in  gardens  beds  there  was  a  range  of  low  two 
story  buildings.  Some  bleached  sailors,  in  duck 
trowsers  and  blue  jackets,  were  about ;  one  was 
reading  a  song-book,  another  his  Bible,  and  a  third 
was  busily  making  a  marine  swab  out  of  ropes'  ends. 


180  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Among  the  convalescents,  out  on  the  balconies  to 
catch  a  breath  of  the  pure  air,  was  a  naval  officer  in  a 
gilt  cap,  reading  a  novel ;  and  all  looked  snug  and 
encouraging.  On  entering,  I  asked  the  attendant,  a 
gaunt-looking  Englishman,  who  in  his  musty  black 
suit,  was  not  unlike  a  carrion  crow  or  a  turkey  buz- 
zard, whether  there  was  any  serious  case  of  illness 
in  the  hospital.  "There  are  two  consumptives," 
said  he,  "  who've  been  a  deceiving  us  for  the  last  two 
weeks."  He  seemed  to  think  it  a  very  base  fraud 
that  these  two  consumptives  had  not  died  when  he 
and  the  doctor  thought  it  was  their  duty  to  do  so, 
some  fortnight  before. 

Coming  from  the  one  bill  to  another,  I  reached  a 
miserable  quarter  of  the  town,  called  by  the  sailors 
the  "foretop."  It  was  composed  of  rude  mud  hovels, 
stuffed  with  a  population  of  half-breeds,  a  half-naked 
gipsy-looking  people,  grovelling  in  the  dirt,  and  brea- 
thing an  atmosphere  reeking  with  the  stench  of  filth, 
garlic  and  frying  fat.  I  was  glad  to  escape,  and  get 
to  the  "  Star  Hotel,"  where,  refreshing  myself  with 
a  chop  and  brown  stout,  I  could  fancy  myself,  with 
hardly  an  effort  of  the  imagination,  taking  my  dinner 
at  an  ordinary  in  the  Strand. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

BY    THE     REV.     THEODORE     PARKER. 
I. 

TWO   LOVERS. 
(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MOHRIKB.) 

A  LIGHT  skiff  swam  on  Danube's  tide, 
Where  sat  a  bridegroom  and  his  bride, 
He  this  side  and  she  that  side. 

Quoth  she,  "  Heart's  dearest,  tell  to  me, 
What  wedding-gift  shall  I  give  thee  ?" 

Upward  her  little  sleeve  she  strips, 
And  in  the  water  briskly  dips. 

The  young  man  did  the  same  straightway, 
And  played  with  her  and  laughed  so  gay. 

"  Ah,  give  to  me,  Dame  Danube  fair, 
Some  pretty  toy  for  my  love  to  wear  I" 

181 


182  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

She  drew  therefrom  a  shining  blade, 
For  which  the  youth  so  long  had  prayed. 

The  bridegroom,  what  holds  he  in  hand  ? 
Of  milk-white  pearls  a  precious  band. 

He  twines  it  round  her  raven  hair ; 
She  looked  how  like  a  princess  there ! 

"  Oh,  give  to  me,  Dame  Danube  fair, 
Some  pretty  toy  for  my  love  to  wear !" 

A  second  time  her  arm  dips  in, 
A  glittering  helm  of  steel  to  win. 

The  youth,  o'erjoyed  the  prize  to  view, 
Brings  her  a  golden  comb  thereto. 

A  third  time  she  in  the  water  dips. 
Ah  woe!  from  out  the  skiff  she  slips. 

He  leaps  for  her  and  grasps  straightway — 
Dame  Danube  tears  them  both  away. 

The  dame  began  her  gifts  to  rue — 
The  youth  must  die,  the  maiden  too ! 

The  little  skiff  floats  down  alone, 
Behind  the  hills  soon  sinks  the  sun. 


TRANSLATIONS.  183 


And  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
To  land  the  lovers  floated  dead, 
He  this  side  and  she  that  side ! 


II. 
THE     FISHER-MAIDEN. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINE.) 

THOU  handsome  fisher-maiden, 
Push  thy  canoe  to  land ; 

Come  and  sit  down  beside  me — 
We'll  talk,  love,  hand  in  hand. 

Thy  head  lay  on  my  bosom, 

Be  not  afraid  of  me, 
For  careless  thou  confidest 

Each  day  in  the  wild  sea. 

My  heart  is  like  the  ocean, 
Has  storm,  and  ebb,  and  flow ; 

And  many  pearls  so  handsome 
Kest  in  its  deeps  below. 


184  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

III. 
MY  CHILD  WHEN  WE  WEEE  CHILDEEN. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINE.) 

MY  child  when  we  were  children, 
Two  children  small  and  gay, 

"We  crept  into  the  hen-house 
And  hid  us  under  the  hay. 

We  crowed,  as  do  the  cockerils, 
When  people  passed  the  road, 

"  Kikeriki  /"  and  they  fancied 
It  was  the  cock  that  crowed. 

The  chests  which  lay  in  the  court-yard, 
We  papered  them  so  fair, 

Making  a  house  right  famous, 
And  dwelt  together  there. 

The  old  cat  of  our  neighbor, 

Came  oft  to  make  a  call ; 
We  made  her  bows  and  courtesies, 

And  compliments  and  all. 

We  asked  with  friendly  question, 
How  her  health  was  getting  on  : 

To  many  an  ancient  pussy 
The  same  we  since  have  done. 


TRANSLATIONS.  185 

In  sensible  discoursing 

We  sat  like  aged  men, 
And  told  how  in  our  young  days 

All  things  had  better  been. 

That  Truth,  Love  and  Eeligion 

From  the  earth  are  vanished  quite — 

And  now  so  dear  is  coffee, 
And  money  is  so  tight ! 

But  gone  are  childish  gambols, 
And  all  things  fleeting  prove — 

Money,  the  world,  our  young  days, 
Eeligion,  Truth  and  Love. 


PAID    FOE    BY    THE    PAGE. 


BY   EDWAED   S.  GOULD. 


THE  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  A  man  who 
produces  an  available  u  article  "  for  a  newspaper  or 
a  periodical,  is  as  properly  entitled  to  a  pecuniary 
recompense,  as  a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer,  or  a  clergy- 
man, for  professional  services ;  or,  as  a  merchant  or 
a  mechanic  for  his  transferable  property.  This  is  a 
simple  proposition,  which  nobody  disputes.  The 
rate  of  such  compensation  must  be  a  matter  of 
agreement.  As  between  author  and  publisher, 
custom  seems  to  have  fixed  on  what  an  arithmeti- 
cian would  call  "  square  measure,"  as  the  basis  of 
the  bargain;  and  the  question  of  adjustment  is 
simplified  down  to  "  how  much  by  the  column,  or 
the  page  ?" 

This  system  has  its  advantages  in  a  business 
point  of  view ;  because,  when  the  price,  or  rate,  is 
agreed  on,  nothing  remains  but  to  count  the  pages. 
"Whether  the  publisher  or  the  writer  is  benefited 
by  this  plan  of  computation,  in  a  literary  point 
of  view,  may,  however,  be  doubted. 

186 


PAID   FOB   BY*  THE    PAGE.  187 

A  man  who  is  paid  by  the  page  for  his  literary 
labour,  has  every  inducement  but  one  to  expand 
lines  into  sentences,  sentences  into  paragraphs,  and 
paragraphs  into  extravagant  dimensions.  An  idea, 
to  him,  is  a  thing  to  be  manufactured  into  words, 
each  of  which  has  a  money  value  ;  and  if  he  can, 
by  that  simplest  of  all  processes — a  verbal  dilution 
— give  to  one  idea  the  expansive  power  of  twelve ; 
if  he  can  manage  to  spread  over  six  pages  what 
would  be  much  better  said  in  half  a  page,  he  gains 
twelve  prices  for  his  commodity,  instead  of  one ; 
and  he  sacrifices  nothing  but  the  quality  of  his 
commodity — and  that  is  no  sacrifice,  so  long  as  his 
publisher  and  his  readers  do  not  detect  it. 

When  a  man  writes  for  reputation,  he  has  a  very 
different  task  before  him ;  for  no  one  will  gain  high 
and  permanent  rank  as  an  author,  unless  his  ideas 
bear  some  tolerable  proportion  to  his  words.  He 
who  aims  to  write  welly  will  avoid  diffuseness. 
Multuin  inparvo  will  be  his  first  consideration ;  and 
if  he  achieves  that,  he  will  have  secured  one  of  the 
prime  requisites  of  literary  fame. 
.  In  the  earlier  days  of  our  republic,  a  discussion 
was  held  by  several  of  the  prominent  statesmen  of 
the  period,  on  the  expediency  of  extending  the 
right  of  suffrage  to  others  than  freeholders.  Some 
of  the  debaters  made  long  speeches ;  others  made 


188  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

short  ones.  At  length,  Mr.  JAY  was  called  on  for 
his  views  of  the  matter.  His  brief  response  was  : 
"  Gentlemen,  in  my  opinion,  those  who  own  the  coun- 
try ought  to  rule  it."  If  that  distinguished  patriot 
had- been  writing  for  the  bleeding  Kansas  Quarterly, 
at  the  rate  of  a  dollar  a  page,  he  would  probably  have 
expanded  this  remark.  He  might  have  written  thus : 
"  Every  man  is  born  free  and  independent ;  or, 
if  he  is  not,  he  ought  to  be.  E  pluribus  unum. 
He  is,  moreover,  the  natural  proprietor  of  the  soil ; 
for  the  soil,  without  him,  is  nothing  worth.  He 
came  from  the  soil ;  he  lives  on  the  soil ;  and  he 
must  return  to  the  soil.  De  gustibus,  non  est  dispu- 
tandum.  So  much  for  man  in  his  natural  state, 
breathing  his  natural  air,  surrounded  by  his  natural 
horizon,  and  luxuriating  in  his  natural  prerogatives. 
But  this  is  a  very  limited  view  of  the  question.  Man 
is  expansive,  aggressive,  acquisitive.  Vox  populi, 
vox  Dei.  Having  acquired,  he  wills  to  acquire.  Ac- 
quisition suggests  acquisition.  Conquest  promotes 
conquest.  And,  speaking  of  conquests,  the  greatest 
of  all  conquests  is  that  which  a  man  obtains  over  him- 
self— provided  always  that  he  does  obtain  it.  This 
secured,  he  may  consider  himself  up  to  anything. 
Arma  virumque  cano.  Owning  the  soil  by  right  of 
possession;  owning  himself  by  right  of  conquest; 
and,  being  about  to  establish  a  form  of  government 


PAID   FOR  BY  THE  PAGE.  189 

conformable  to  his  own  views  of  right  and  wrong ; 
let  him  protect  the  right,  confound  the  wrong,  and 
make  his  own  selection  of  subordinate  officers. 
Mus  cucwrrit  plenum  sed" 

This,  by  way  of  illustration.  The  Jay  style 
sounds  the  best:  the  dollar-a-page  style  pays  the 
best.  But  the  dollar-a-page  system  is  a  very  bad 
one  for  the  well-being  of  our  newspaper  and 
periodical  literature,  simply  because  the  chief 
inducement  is  on  the  wrong  side.  If  an  author 
receives  twice  as  much  pay  for  a  page  as  for  half  a 
page,  he  will  write  a  page  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  quality  of  what  he 
writes  will  be  depreciated  in  geometrical  propor- 
tion. For  the  same  thing,  said  in  few  words,  is  ten 
times  more  effectual  than  when  said  in  many 
words. 

No  doubt,  different  subjects  require  different 
handling,  and  more  space  is  needed  for  some  than 
for  others.  An  essay  is  not  necessarily  too  long 
because  it  fills  five  columns,  or  fifty  pages;  but 
periodical  and  newspaper  writing  demands  com- 
pactness, conciseness,  concentration;  and  the  fact 
of  being'  paid  by  measurement,  is  a  writer's  ever- 
present  temptation  to  disregard  this  demand. 

The  conceit  of  estimating  the  value  of  an  article 
by  its  length  and  rating  the  longest  at  the  highest 


190  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

price,  is  about  as  wise  as  to  estimate  a  man  by  his 
inches  instead  of  his  intellect. 

Certain  names  there  are  in  the  literary  world, 
which  cany  great  weight  in  a  reader's  regard, 
independently  of  the  quality  of  the  contributions. 
If  a  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  to  write  for  the  North 
American  Review,  he  would  temporarily  elevate 
the  reputation  of  the  Review,  however  carelessly 
he  might  throw  his  sentences  together.  But, 
theoretically,  the  articles  in  our  periodical  litera- 
ture are  anonymous ;  and,  practically,  they  stand 
on  their  intrinsic  merits.  And  it  is  out  of  the 
question  that  a  system  which  offers  a  money 
premium  for  the  worst  fault  in  periodical  writing — 
to  wit,  prolixity — should  not  deteriorate  the  charac- 
ter of  such  writing. 

Much  more  might  be  said  on  this  subject ;  but, 
to  the  wise,  a  word  is  sufficient.  And  it  would  ill 
become  one  who  is  endeavouring  to  recommend 
conciseness,  to  disfigure  that  very  endeavour  by 
diffuseness. 


WORDS   FOE   MUSIC 


BY  GEOEGE  P.   MOEEIS. 


I  KNEW  a  sweet  girl,  with  a  bonny  blue  eye, 

Who  was  born  in  the  shade 

The  witch-hazel-tree  made, 

Where  the  brook  sang  a  song 

All  the  summer-day  long, 
And  the  moments,  like  birdlings  went  by, — 

Like  the  birdlings  the  moments  new  by. 

n. 

I  knew  a  fair  maid,  soul  enchanting  in  grace, 

Who  replied  to  my  vow, 

!Neath  the  hazel-tree  bough : 

"  Like  the  brook  to  the  sea, 

Oh,  I  yearn,  love,  for  thee." 
And  she  hid  in  my  bosom  her  face — 

In  my  bosom  her  beautiful  face. 

191 


192  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

m. 

I  have  a  dear  wife,  who  is  ever  my  guide ; 
Wooed  and  won  in  the  shade 
The  witch-hazel  tree  made, 
Where  the  brook  sings  its  song 
All  the  summer  day  long, 

And  the  moments  in  harmony  glide, 

Like  our  lives  they  in  harmony  glide. 


"THE    CHRISTIAN    GBEATNESS." 

(PASSAGES  FROM  A  MANUSCRIPT  SERMON.) 
BY     THE     EEV.     OEVILLE     DEWET,    D.D. 

THE    OFFERING  OF  CONTRITION. 

THAT  deepest  lowliness  of  all — the  prostration 
before  God,  the  prostration  in  penitence — is  the 
highest  honor  that  humanity  can  achieve.  It  is 
the  first  great  cardinal  requisition  in  the  Gospel; 
and  it  is  not  meant  to  degrade,  but  to  exalt  us. 
Self-condemnation  is  the  loftiest  testimony  that  can 
be  given  to  virtue.  It  is  a  testimony  paid  at  the 
expense  of  all  our  pride.  It  is  no  ordinary  offering. 
A  man  may  sacrifice  his  life  to  what  he  calls 
honor,  or  conceives  to  be  patriotism,  who  never 
paid  the  homage  of  an  honest  tear  for  his  own 
faults.  That  was  a  beautiful  idea  of  the  poet,  who 
made  the  boon  that  was  to  restore  a  wandering 
shade  to  the  bliss  of  humanity — a  boon  sought 
through  all  the  realm  of  nature  and  existence — to 
consist,  not  in  wealth  or  splendor,  not  in  regal 
9  193 


194:  GIFTS    OP   GENIUS. 

mercy  or  canonized  glory,  but  in  a  tear  of  peni- 
tence. Temple  and  altar,  charity  and  pity,  and 
martyrdom,  sunk  before  that. 

I  have  seen  the  magnificence  of  all  ceremonial  in 
worship ;  and  this  was  the  thought  that  struck  me 
then.  Permit  me  to  describe  the  scene,  and  to 
express  the  thought  that  rose  in  my  mind,  as  I 
gazed  upon  it.  It  was  in  the  great  cathedral 
church  of  the  world ;  and  it  brings  a  kind  of 
religious  impression  over  my  mind  to  recall  its 
awfulness  and  majesty.  Above,  far  above  me,  rose 
a  dome,  gilded  and  covered  with  mosaic  pictures, 
and  vast  as  the  pantheon  of  old  Home ;  the  four 
pillars  which  supported  it,  each  of  them  as  large  as 
many  of  our  churches;  and  the  entire  mass,  lifted 
to  five  times  the  height  of  this  building — its  own 
height  swelling  far  beyond;  no  dome  so  sublime 
but  that  of  heaven  was  ever  spread  above  mortal 
eye.  And  beyond  this  dome,  beneath  which  I 
stood,  stretched  away  into  dimness  and  obscurity 
the  mighty  roofing  of  this  stupendous  temple — 
arches  behind  arches,  fretted  with  gold,  and  touched 
with  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun.  Around  me,  a 
wilderness  of  marble;  with  colors  as  variegated 
and  rich  as  our  autumnal  woods ;  columns,  pillars, 
altars,  tombs,  statues,  pictures  set  in  ever-during 
stone;  objects  to  strike  the  beholder  with  never- 


"THE  CHRISTIAN  GREATNESS."'  195 

ceasing  wonder.  And  on  this  mighty  pavement, 
stood  a  multitude  of  many  thousands  ;  and  through 
bright  lines  of  soldiery,  stretching  far  down  the 
majestic  nave,  slowly  advanced  a  solemn  and 
stately  procession,  clothed  with  purple,  and  crim- 
son, and  white,  and  blazing  with  rubies  and 
diamonds;  slowly  it  advanced  amidst  kneeling 
crowds  and  strains  of  heavenly  music;  and  so  it 
compassed  about  the  altar  of  God,  to  perform  the 
great  commemorative  rite  of  Christ's  resurrection. 
Expect  from  me  no  sectarian  deprecation  ;  it  was  a 
goodly  rite,  and  fitly  performed.  But,  amidst 
solemn  utterances,  and  lowly  prostrations,  and 
pealing  anthems,  and  rising  incense,  and  all  the 
surrounding  magnificence  of  the  scene,  shall  I  tell 
you  what  was  my  thought?  One  sigh  of  contri- 
tion, one  tear  of  repentance,  one  humble  prayer  to 
God,  though  breathed  in  a  crypt  of  the  darkest 
catacomb,  is  worth  all  the  splendors  of  this  gorgeous 
ceremonial  and  this  glorious  temple. 

VIRTUE  DT  OBSCURITY. 

And  let  me  add,  that  upon  many  a  lowly  bosom, 
the  gem  of  virtue  shines  more  bright  and  beautiful 
than  it  is  ever  likely  to  shine  in  any  court  of 
royalty  or  crown  of  empire :  and  this,  for  the  very 


196  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

reason  that  it  shines  in  loneliness  and  obscurity, 
and  is  surrounded  with  no  circlet  of  gazing  and 
flattering  eyes.  There  are  positions  in  life,  in 
society,  where  all  loveliness  is  seen  and  noted; 
chronicled  in  men's  admiring  comments,  and  per- 
haps celebrated  in  adulatory  sonnets  and  songs. 
And  well,  perhaps,  that  it  is  so.  1  would  not 
repress  the  admiration  of  society  toward  the 
lovely  and  good.  But  there  is  many  a  lowly 
cottage,  many  a  lowly  bedside  of  sickness  and  pain, 
to  which  genius  brings  no  offering ;  to  which  the 
footsteps  of  the  enthusiastic  and  admiring  never 
come ;  to  which  there  is  no  cheering  visitation — but 
the  visitation  of  angels!  There  is  humble  toil — 
there  is  patient  assiduity — there  is  noble  disinterest- 
edness— there  is  heroic  sacrifice  and  unshaken  truth. 
The  great  world  passes  by,  and  it  toils  on  in  silence ; 
to  its  gentle  footstep,  there  are  no  echoing  praises  ; 
around  its  modest  beauty,  gathers  no  circle  of  ad- 
mirers. It  never  thought  of  honor ;  it  never  asked 
to  be  known.  Unsung,  unrecorded,  is  the  labor  of  its 
life,  and  shall  be,  till  the  heavens  be  no  more ;  till 
the  great  day  of  revelation  comes ;  till  the  great 
promise  of  Jesus  is  fulfilled ;  till  the  last  shall  be 
first,  and  the  lowliest  shall  be  loftiest;  and  the 
poverty  of  the  world  shall  be  the  riches  and 
glory  of  heaven. 


THE  BABY  AND  THE  BOY  MUSICIAN. 

BY  LTDIA  HTJNTLEY  8IGOUENEY. 

A  CHERUB  in  its  mother's  arms, 
Look'd  from  a  casement  high — 

And  pleasure  o'er  the  features  stray'd, 

As  on  his  simple  organ  play'd 
A  boy  of  Italy. 

So,  day  by  day,  his  skill  he  plied, 

With  still  increasing  zeal, 
For  well  the  glittering  coin  he  knew, 
Those  fairy  fingers  gladly  threw, 

Would  buy  his  frugal  meal. 

But  then !  alas,  there  came  a  change 

Unheeded  was  his  song, 
And  in  his  upraised,  earnest  eye 
There  dwelt  a  silent  wonder,  why 

The  baby  slept  so  long 

197 


198  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

That  polished  brow,  those  lips  of  Eosc 

Beneath  the  flowers  were  laid — 
But  where  the  music  never  tires, 
Amid  the  white-robed  angel  choir 
The  happy  spirit  stray'd. 

Yet  lingering  at  the  accustom'd  place 

That  minstrel  ply'd  his  art, 
Though  its  soft  symphony  of  words 
Convulsed  with  pain  the  broken  chords 
Within  a  mother's  heart. 

They  told  him  that  the  babe  was  dead 

And  could  return  no  more, 
Dead  !  Dead  ! — to  his  bewildered  ear, 
A  foreign  language  train'd  to  hear — 
The  sound  no  import  bore. 

At  length,  by  slow  degrees,  the  truth 

O'er  his  young  being  stole, 
And  with  sad  step  he  went  his  way 
No  more  for  that  blest  babe  to  play, 
The  tear-drop  in  his  soul. 

City  of  Washington,  May  24,  1858. 


THE     EEL -KING. 

(FROM   THE  GERMAN  OP  GOETHE.) 
BY  MRS.  E.  F.  ELLET. 

BY  night  through  the  forest  who  rideth  so  fast, 
While  the  chill  sleet  is  driving,  and  fierce  roars 

the  blast? 
'Tis  the  father,  who  beareth  his  child  through  the 

storm, 
And  safe  in  his  mantle  has  wrapped  him  from 

harm. 

"  My  son,  why  hid'st  thy  face,  as  in  fear  ?" 
"  Oh,  father !  see,  father !  the  Erl-king  is  near ! 
The   Erl-king    it  is,   with    his    crown    and    his 

shroud !" 
"  My  boy !  it  is  naught  but  a  wreatli  of  the  cloud." 

"  Oh,  pretty  child !  come — wilt  thou  go  with  me ! 
With  many  gay  sports  will  1  gambol  with  thee ; 

199 


200  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

There  are  flowers  of  all  hues  on  our  fairy  strand — 
My  mother  shall  weave  thee  robes  golden  and 
grand." 

"  Oh,  father !  my  father !  and  dost  thou  not  hear 
What  the  Erl-king  is  whispering  low  in  mine  ear?" 

"  Be  quiet,  my  darling !  thy  hearing  deceives ; 
'Tis  but  the  wind  whistling    among  the   crisp 
leaves." 

"  Oh,  beautiful  boy !  wilt  thou  come  with  me  I- — 

say! 

My  daughters  are  waiting  to  join  thee  at  play ! 
In  their  arms  they  shall  bear  thee  through  all  the 

dark  night — 
They  shall  dance,  they  shall  sing  thee  to  slumber 

so  light?" 

"  My  father !  oh,  father !  and  dost  thou  not  see 
Where  the  Erl-king's  daughters  are  waiting  for 
me?" 

"  My  child !  'tis  no  phantom !  I  see  it  now  plain ; 
'Tis  but  the  grey  willow  that  waves  in  the  rain." 

"  Thy  sweet  face  hath  charmed  me !     I  love  thee, 

my  joy ! 

And  com'st  thou  not  willing,  I'll  seize  thee,  fair 
boy!" 


THE  EKL-KING.  201 

Ob,  father !  dear  father !  his  touch  is  so  cold ! 
He  grasps  me !     I  cannot  escape  from  his  hold !" 

Sore  trembled  the  father,  he  spurs  through  the 

wild, 

And  folds  yet  more  closely  his  terrified  child ; 
He  reaches  his  own  gate  in  darkness  and  dread- — 
Alas !  in  his  arms  lay  the  fair  child — dead ! 


9* 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON. 

BY   THE   EEV.    SAMUEL   OSGOOD,  D.D. 

FENELON  died  at  Cambray,  January  7, 1715,  aged 
64,  some  years  after  the  death  of  Bossuet,  his  anta- 
gonist, and  shortly  before  the  death  of  his  royal 
patron  and  persecutor,  Louis  XIY.  The  conscience 
of  Christendom  has  already  judged  between  the 
two  parties.  Never  was  the  spirit  of  the  good  arch- 
bishop more  powerful  than  now.  Whilst  ambitious 
ecclesiastics  may  honor  more  the  name  of  Bossuet, 
the  heart  of  France  has  embalmed  in  its  affections 
the  name  of  his  victim,  and  our  common  humanity 
has  incorporated  him  into  its  body.  When  Fene- 
lon's  remains  were  discovered  in  1804,  the  French 
people  shouted  with  joy  that  Jacobinism  had  not 
scattered  his  ashes,  and  a  monument  to  his  memory 
was  forthwith  decreed  by  Napoleon.  In  1826,  his 
statue  was  erected  in  Cambray,  and  three  years 
after,  a  memorial  more  eloquent  than  any  statue,  a 
selection  from  his  works,  exhibiting  the  leading  fea- 
tures of  his  mind,  bore  witness  of  his  power  and 

202 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON.          203 

goodness  to  this  western  world.  The  graceful 
monument  which  the  wife  of  Follen  thus  reared  to 
his  memory  was  crowned  by  the  hand  of  Channing 
with  a  garland  that  as  yet  has  shown  no  trace  of 
decay. 

To  any  conversant  with  that  little  work,  or  with 
the  larger  productions  of  Fenelon's  mind,  need  I 
say  a  single  word  of  tribute  to  his  character  or  gifts  ? 
Yet  something  must  be  said  to  show  the  compass  of 
his  character,  for  common  eulogium  is  too  indiscri- 
minate in  praise,  exaggerating  certain  amiable 
graces  at  the  expense  of  more  commanding  virtues. 

He  was  remarkable  for  the  harmony  of  his  vari- 
ous qualities.  In  his  intellect,  reason,  understand- 
ing, fancy,  imagination,  were  balanced  in  an  almost 
unexampled  degree.  The  equilibrium  of  his  cha- 
racter showed  itself  alike  in  the  exquisite  propriety 
of  his  writings  and  the  careful  and  generous  eco- 
nomy of  his  substance.  He  died  without  property 
and  without  debt.  Some  critics  have  denied  him 
the  praise  of  philosophical  depth.  They  should 
rather  say,  that  his  love  of  prying  analytically  into 
the  secret  principles  of  things  was  counterbalanced 
by  the  desire  to  exhibit  principles  in  practical  com- 
bination, and  by  his  preference  of  truth  and  virtue 
in  its  living  portraiture  to  moral  anatomizing  or 
metaphysical  dissection.  He  could  grapple  wisely 


204  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

with  the  fatalism  of  Malebranche  and  the  pantheism 
of  Spinosa,  as  his  controversial  works  show;  he 
could  hold  an  even  argument  with  the  terrible  Bos- 
suet  on  the  essence  of  Christianity.  He  preferred, 
however,  to  exhibit  under  forms  far  more  winning 
than  controversy,  his  views  of  human  agency,  divine 
power,  and  Christian  love.  The  beautiful  structure 
of  his  narratives,  dialogues,  and  letters,  is  not  the 
graceful  cloak  that  hides  a  poverty  of  philosophical 
ideas.  It  is  like  the  covering  which  the  Creator 
has  thrown  around  the  human  frame,  not  to  dis- 
guise its  emptiness,  but  to  incase  its  energies,  and 
to  ease  and  beautify  its  action.  With  this  reserva- 
tion, we  will  allow  it  to  be  said  that  his  mind  was 
more  graceful  than  strong. 

His  heart  was  equally  balanced  with  his  intellect. 
Piety  and  humanity,  dignity  and  humility,  justice 
and  mercy,  blended  in  the  happiest  equilibrium. 
His  gentleness  never  led  him  to  forget  due  self- 
respect,  or  forego  any  opportunity  of  speaking  un- 
welcome truths.  Bossuet  and  Louis,  in  their  pride, 
as  well  as  young  Burgundy,  in  his  confiding  attach- 
ment, had  more  than  one  occasion  to  recognize  the 
singular  truthfulness  of  this  gentle  spirit.  Measured 
by  prevalent  standards,  his  character  may  be  said 
to  lack  one  element — fear.  His  life  was  love.  The 
text  that  the  beloved  disciple  drew  from  his  Mas- 


THOUGHTS   UPON   FENELON,  205 

ter's  bosom  was  the  constant  lesson  of  his  soul: 
"  He  that  loveth  not  knoweth  not  God,  for  God  is 
love!" 

His  active  powers  were  great,  for  he  filled  with 
efficiency  posts  of  duty  so  various  as  to  call  for  dif- 
ferent orders  of  ability.  Priest,  preceptor,  prelate, 
as  well  as  statesman,  poet,  orator,  theologian,  he 
was  eminent  in  every  capacity,  and  in  each  sphere 
took  something  from  his  distinction  by  being  rival 
of  himself  in  other  spheres.  Take  him  for  all  in  all 
—allowing  to  other  men  superior  excellence  in  sin- 
gle departments — where  can  we  find  a  man  on  the 
whole  so  perfect  as  he  was  ? 

I  am  well  aware  that  he  has  not  escaped  dispa- 
ragement, and  that  the  animadversions  of  his  con- 
temporary, St.  Simon,  have  been  more  than  re- 
peated in  the  suspicions  of  the  over-skeptical  histo- 
rian Michelet.  True,  that  the  coiirtesy  that  won 
the  hearts  alike  of  master  and  servant,  the  high- 
born lady  who  sought  his  society  and  the  broken- 
spirited  widow  who  asked  his  Christian  counsel, 
has  been  ascribed  to  a  love  of  praise  that  rejoiced 
in  every  person's  homage,  or  a  far-sighted  policy 
that  desired  every  person's  suffrage.  True,  that  his 
self-denial  has  been  called  a  deep  self-interest  that 
would  win  high  honors  by  refusing  to  accept  the 
less  rewards.  True,  that  his  piety  has  sometimes 


206  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

been  called  sentimentalism,  and  an  alloy  of  baser 
emotion  lias  been  hinted  at  as  running  through 
some  of  his  letters  to  enthusiastic  devotees.  True, 
that  he  has  been  called  very  politic  and  ambitious. 
We  claim  for  him  no  superhuman  perfection.  Nor 
do  we  deny  that  he  was  a  Frenchman,  whilst  we 
maintain  that  he  was  every  inch  a  man. 

But  let  him  be  judged  not  by  a  skeptical  suspi- 
cion that  doubts  from  the  habit  of  doubting  of  vir- 
tue, but  by  the  spirit  of  his  whole  life.  That  life, 
from  beginning  to  end,  was  an  example  of  the  vir- 
tue commended  by  our  Lord  in  his  charge  to  his 
apostles.  Sent  forth  like  a  lamb  in  the  midst  of 
wolves,  he  blended  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  with 
the  gentleness  of  the  dove.  Whatever  failings  he 
may  have  had  he  conquered.  His  course  was  ever 
onward  to  the  mark  whither  he  deemed  himself 
called  of  God. 

We  probably  have  often  felt,  on  reading  Fenelon, 
as  if  his  sweetness  of  temper  were  sometimes  at  the 
expense  of  his  manliness,  and  we  could  easily  spare 
some  of  his  honeyed  words  for  an  occasional  flow  of 
hearty,  even  if  bitter,  indignation.  To  his  credit, 
however,  be  it  said,  that  with  him  gentle  speech  was 
often  but  the  smooth  edge  of  faithful  counsel  most 
resolutely  pointed  and  sharpened  at  the  consciences 
of  the  great  whom  rudeness  would  offend  and  inele- 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON.          207 

gance  disgust.  Ilecent  discoveries  have  given  am- 
ple proof  of  Iris  unflinching  boldness  to  the  French 
Court.  During  his  banishment  (1694-97)  he  wrote 
that  masterly  and  fearless  letter  to  Louis  XIV., 
which  was  not  discovered  until  1825,  and  which  the 
most  earnest  of  his  eulogists,  not  even  Channing, 
we  believe,  seems  to  have  noted.  Than  these  intre- 
pid words,  Christian  heroism  cannot  further  go. 

"Would  that  there  were  time  to  speak  of  his  works 
in  their  various  departments,  especially  those  in  the 
departments  of  education,  social  morals,  and  reli- 
gion. 

~No  name  stands  above  his  among  the  leaders  in 
the  great  cause  of  education.  None  surpass  him  in 
the  power  with  which  he  defended  the  mind  of 
woman  from  the  impoverishing  and  distorting  sys- 
tems prevalent  in  his  day,  and  by  his  example  and 
pen  taught  parents  to  educate  their  daughters  in  a 
manner  that  should  rebuke  vanity  and  deceit,  and 
blend  grace  with  utility.  None  went  before  him 
in  knowledge  of  the  art  of  taming  obstinate  boy- 
hood into  tenderness,  and  with  all  modern  improve- 
ments our  best  teachers  may  find  in  his  works  a 
mine  of  knowledge  and  incentive  both  in  their  tasks 
of  instruction  and  discipline. 

In  social  morals  he  was  a  great  reformer ;  not, 
indeed,  so  remarkable  for  being  engrossed  with 


208  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

some  favorite  innovation,  as  for  urging  the  constant 
need  of  applying  Christian  truth  and  duty  to  every 
social  institution.  He  rebuked  the  passion  for  war, 
by  his  own  demeanor  disarmed  the  hostility  of  com- 
batants, and  by  his  instructions  struck  at  the  root 
of  warfare  in  the  councils  of  princes.  We  may  well 
be  amazed  at  his  political  wisdom,  and  taught  more 
emphatically  than  ever  that  we  are  to  look  for  this 
not  to  the  hack-politicians  who  think  only  of  the 
cabals  of  the  moment,  but  to  the  sage  men  who  in- 
terpret the  future  from  the  high  ground  of  reason 
and  right.  His  political  papers  embody  the  lessons 
that  France  has  since  learned  by  a  baptism  of  blood. 
Hardly  a  single  principle  now  deemed  necessary  for 
the  peace  and  prosperity  of  nations,  can  be  named, 
that  cannot  be  found  expressed  or  implied  in  Fene- 
lon's  various  advice  to  the  royal  youth  under  his 
charge.  Well  may  the  better  minds  of  France  and 
Christendom  honor  his  name  for  the  noble  liber- 
ality with  which  he  qualified  the  mild  conservatism 
so  congenial  with  his  temperament,  creed  and  posi- 
tion. 

As  a  theologian,  he  constantly  breathes  one  en- 
grossing sentiment.  With  him,  Christianity  was 
the  love  of  God  and  its  morality  was  the  love  of  the 
neighbor.  Judged  by  occasional  expressions,  his 
piety  might  seem  too  ascetic  and  mystical — too 


THOUGHTS   UPON   FENELON.  209 

urgent  of  penance  and  self-crucifixion — too  enthu- 
siastic in  emotion,  perilling  the  sobriety  of  reason 
in  the  impassioned  fervors  of  devotion — sometimes 
bordering  upon  that  overstrained  spiritualism, 
which,  in  its  impulsive  flights,  is  so  apt  to  lose  its 
just  balance  and  sink  to  the  earth  and  the  empire 
of  the  senses.  He  has  written  some  things  that  pru- 
dence, nay,  wisdom,  might  wish  to  erase.  But, 
qualified  by  other  statements,  and  above  all,  inter- 
preted by  his  own  life,  his  religion  appears  in  its 
true  proportion — without  gloom,  without  extrava- 
gance. To  his  honor  be  it  spoken,  that  in  an  age 
when  priests  and  prelates  eminent  for  saintly  piety 
sanctioned  the  scourging  and  death  of  heretics,  and 
enforced  the  Gospel  chiefly  by  the  fears  of  perdition, 
Fenelon  was  censured  for  dwelling  too  much  on  the 
power  of  love,  that  perfect  charity  that  casteth  out 
fear.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  a  failing  with  him  that 
he  had  too  little  sympathy  with  the  fears  and  pas- 
sions of  men,  and  appreciated  too  little  the  more 
sublime  and  terrible  aspects  of  Divine  Providence. 
His  mind  was  tuned  too  gently  to  answer  to  all  of 
the  grandest  music  of  our  humanity,  and  we  must 
abate,  something  of  our  admiration  of  him  for  his 
want  of  loyalty  to  the  new  ages  of  Christian  thought 
and  heroism.  He  evidently  loved  Yirgil  more  than 
Dante,  Cicero  more  than  Chrysostom,  and  thought 


210  GIFfS    OF   GENILTS. 

the  Greek  Parthenon,  in  its  horizontal  lines  and 
sensuous  beauty,  a  grander  and  more  perfect  struc- 
ture, alike  in  plan  and  execution,  than  Notre  Dame 
or  Strasbourg  Cathedral,  with  its  uplifting  points 
and  spiritual  sublimity.  He  was  a  Christianized 
Greek,  who  had  exchanged  the  philosopher's  robe 
for  the  archbishop's  surplice. 

Viewing  him  now  on  the  whole,  considering  at 
once  his  gifts  and  graces  of  mind,  and  heart,  and 
will;  his  offerings  upon  the  altar  of  learning, 
humanity  and  religion,  we  sum  up  our  judgment  in 
a  single  saying.  He  worshipped  God  in  the  beauty 
of  holiness.  His  whole  being,  with  all  its  graces 
and  powers  so  harmoniously  combined,  was  an 
offering  to  God  that  men  cannot  but  admire  and 
the  Most  High  will  not  despise. 

We  may  not  take  leave  of  Fenelon  without 
applying  to  our  times  the  teachings  of  his  spirit, 
the  lesson  of  his  life.  However  rich  the  topic  in 
occasion  for  controversial  argument,  we  defer  all 
strife  to  the  inspiration  of  his  gentle  and  loving 
wisdom.  Let  an  incident  connected  with  the  tomb 
of  Fenelon  furnish  us  an  emblem  of  the  spirit  in 
which  we  shall  look  upon  his  name.  His  remains 
were  deposited  in  the  vault  beneath  the  main  altar 
at  which  he  had  so  often  ministered.  It  would 
seem  as  if  some  guardian-angel  shielded  them  from 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON.          211 

desecration.  '  Eighty  years  passed  and  the  Reign 
of  Terror  came  upon  France  in  retribution  for  her 
falsity  to  her  best  advisers.    The  allied  armies  were 
marshalling  their  hosts  against  the  new  republic. 
Every  means  must  be  used  to  add  to  the  public 
resources,  and  the  decree  went  forth  that  even  the 
tombs  should  be  robbed  of  their  coffins.    The  re- 
publican administrator  of  the  District  of  Cambray, 
Bernard  Cannorine,  in  company  with  a  butcher  and 
two  artillery-men,  entered  the  cathedral  and  went 
down  into  the  vault  which  held  the  ashes  of  so 
many  prelates.    The  leaden  coffins  with  their  con- 
tents were  carried  away  and  placed  upon  the  cars ; 
but  when  they  came  to  the  inclosure  whose  tablet 
bore  the  name  of  Fenelon,  and  lifted  it  from  its 
bed,  it  appeared  that  the  lead  had  become  unsol- 
dered and  they  could  take  away  the  coffin  and  leave 
the  sacred  dust  it  had  contained.     Years  passed, 
and  the  reign  of  Napoleon  bringing  a  better  day, 
rebuked  the  Vandalism  that  would   dishonor  all 
greatness  and  spoil  even  its  grave.     The  facts  re- 
garding the  acts  of  desecration  were  legally  ascer- 
tained   and    the   bones  of   the  good    archbishop 
triumphantly    reserved    for    a    nobler    than    the 
ancient  sepulchre.    There  was  a  poetical  justice  in 
the  preservation  of  them  from  violence.     It  was 
well  that  the  bloody  revolutionists  who  went  to  the 


212  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

tombs  for  metal  to  furnish  their  arsenals,  were 
made,  in  spite  of  themselves,  to  respect  the  ashes  of 
one  whose  counsels  of  duty  heeded  would  have 
averted  that  revolution  by  a  system  of  timely  con- 
cessions and  benignant  legislation. 

Now  that  we  virtually  draw  near  the  resting-place 
of  this  good  man,  let  it  not  be  to  furnish  material 
for  bullets  of  lead  or  paper  to  hurl  against  theologi- 
cal antagonists.  Appreciating  the  beauty  of  his 
spirit,  let  us  learn  and  apply  the  rebuke  and  en- 
couragement it  affords.  A  genius  so  rare  we  may 
not  hope  to  approach  or  imitate.  Graces  still  more 
precious  and  imitable  are  associated  with  that 
genius  and  create  its  highest  charm.  Our  time  has 
been  worse  than  thrown  away,  and  our  study  of  his 
works  and  his  biographies  has  been  in  vain,  if  we 
are  not  better,  more  wise,  and  earnest,  and  gentle 
for  the  page  of  history,  the  illustration  of  divine 
providence  that  has  now  come  before  us.  Placed 
in  the  most  perplexing  relations,  he  never  lost  hold 
of  the  calm  wisdom  that  was  his  chosen  guide. 
Exposed  to  the  most  irritating  provocations,  he 
never  gave  up  the  gentle  peacefulness  of  his 
spirit. 

Our  age  is  not  peculiarly  ecclesiastical,  yet  we 
have  not  done  with  the  church  and  its  teachers. 
Many  a  time  of  late  we  have  had  cause  to  think 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FENELON.          213 

with  regret  of  the  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Cambray,  of  the  sacred  Art  that  could 
make  truth  lovely  to  wayward  youth,  and  religion 
beautiful  to  hard  and  skeptical  manhood.  Has  it 
not  sometimes  seemed  as  if  ambitious  prelacy  had 
forgotten  the  purer  example  for  the  baser,  and 
copied  Bossuet's  pride  instead  of  Fenelon's  charity  ? 
Nay,  has  not  priestly  assumption  coveted  the  talons 
and  forgotten  the  wings  of  the  Eagle  of  Meaux  and 
lost  sight  wholly  of  the  Dove  of  Cambray  ?  What 
government  or  ruler  in  Christendom  would  not  be 
the  better  for  a  counsellor  as  eloquent  and  fearless 
as  he  who  dared  rebuke  without  reserve  the  great 
Louis  of  France  in  words  like,  these  : 

"You  do  not  love  God;  you  do  not  even  fear 
him  but  with  a  slave's  fear ;  it  is  hell  and  not  God 
whom  you  fear.  Your  religion  consists  but  in  super- 
stitions, in  petty  superficialities.  You  are  like  the 
Jews,  of  whom  God  said :  '  Whilst  they  honor  me 
with  their  lips,  their  hearts  are  far  from  me.  You 
are  scrupulous  upon  trifles  and  hardened  upon  ter- 
rible evils.  You  love  only  your  own  glory  and 
comfort.  You  refer  everything  to  yourself  as  if  you 
were  the  God  of  the  earth,  and  everything  else  here 
created  only  to  be  sacrificed  to  you.  It  is  you,  on 
the  contrary,  whom  God  has  put  into  the  world 
only  for  your  people." 


POEMS. 

BY     MES.     GEOBGE     P.     MAESH. 
I. 

EXCELSIOR. 

THE  earnest  traveller,  who  would  feed  his  eve 

To  fullness  of  content  on  Nature's  charms, 

Must  not  forever  pace  the  easy  plain. 

No !  he  must  climb  the  rugged  mountain's  side, 

Scale  its  steep  rocks,  cling  to  its  crumbling  crags, 

Nor  fear  to  plunge  in  its  eternal  snows. 

And  yet,  if  he  be  wise,  he  will  not  choose 

To  find  the  doubtful  way  alone,  lest  night 

O'ertake  him  wandering,  and  her  icy  breath 

Chill  him  to  marble  ;  not  alone  will  risk 

His  foot  unwonted  on  the  glassy  bed 

Of  rifted  glacier,  lest  a  step  amiss 

Should  hurl  him  headlong  down  some  fissure  dark, 

That  yawns  unseen — thence  to  arise  no  more. 

But,  furnished  with  a  trusty  guide,  he  mounts 

From  peak  to  peak  in  safety,  though  with  toil. 

214 


POEMS.  215 

Once  on  the  lofty  summit,  he  beholds 
A  glory  in  earth's  kingdom  all  undreamed 
Till  now.     The  heavy  curtains  are  withdrawn, 
That  shut  the  old  horizon  down  so  close ; 
And,  lo !  a  world  is  lying  at  his  feet.! 
A  world  without  a  flaw  !     What  late  he  held 
But  as  discordant  fragments,  now  show  forth, 
From  this  high  vantage  ground,  the  perfect  parts 
Of  a  harmonious  whole !     He  would  not  dare 
To  change  one  line  in  all  that  picture  marvellous 
Of  hill  and  vale,  bright  stream  and  rolling  sea, 
O'erhung  by  the  great  sun  that  gildeth  all. 

And  thou !     If  thou  would'st  truly  feast  thy  soul 
Upon  the  things  invisible  of  Him 
"Who  made  the  visible,  fear  not  to  tread 
The  awful  heights  of  Thought !  not  to  thyself 
Sole  trusting,  lest  thou  perish  in  thy  pride  ; 
But  following  where  Faith  enlightened  leads, 
Thou  shalt  not  miss  or  fall.     The  way  is  rough, 
But  never  toil  did  win  reward  so  rich 
As  that  she  findeth  here.     At  every  step 
ISTew  prospects  open,  and  new  wonders  shine ! 
Mount  higher  still,  and  whatsoe'er  thy  pains, 
Thou'lt  envy  not  the  sleeper  at  thy  feet ! 
Visions  of  truth  and  beauty  shall  arise 
So  multiplied,  so  glorified,  so  vast, 


216  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

That  thy  enraptured  soul  amazed  shall  cry, 
"  No  longer  Earth,  but  the  new  Heavens  I  see 
Lighted  forever  by  the  throne  of  God." 


H. 
FABLE. 

A  WIDOW,  feeble,  old  and  lonely, 

Whose  flock  once  numbered  many  a  score, 
Had  now  remaining  to  her  only 

One  little  lamb,  and  nothing  more. 

And  every  morning  forced  to  send  it 

To  scanty  pastures  far  away, 
With  prayers  and  tears  did  she  commend  it 

To  the  good  saint  that  named  the  day. 

Nor  so  in  vain ;  each  kindly  patron, 
George,  Agnes,  Nicolas,  Genevieve, 

Still  mindful  of  the  helpless  matron, 
Brought  home  her  lambkin  safe  at  eve. 

All-Saints'  day  dawned ;  with  faith  yet  stronger, 
On  the  whole  hallowed  choir  the  dame 

Doth  call — to  one  she  prays  no  longer. — 
That  day  the  wolf  devoured  the  lamb ! 


A  STORY    OF    VENICE. 


BY   GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS. 


I. 


WHEN  I  was  in  Yenice  I  knew  the  Marchesa 
Negropontini.  Many  strangers  knew  her  twenty 
and  thirty  years  ago.  In  my  time  she  was  old  and 
somewhat  withdrawn  from  society ;  but  as  I  had 
been  a  fellow-student  and  friend  of  her  grand- 
nephew  in  Yienna,  I  was  admitted  into  her  house 
familiarly,  until  the  old  lady  felt  as  kindly  toward 
me,  as  if  I,  too,  had  been  a  nephew. 

Italian  life  and  character  are  different  enough 
from  ours.  They  are  traditionally  romantic.  But  we 
are  apt  to  disbelieve  in  the  romance  which  we  hear 
from  those  concerned.  I  cannot  disbelieve,  since  I 
knew  this  sad,  stern  Italian  woman.  Can  you  dis- 
believe, who  have  seen  Titian's,  and  Tintoretto's, 
and  Paolo  Yeronese's  portraits  of  Venetian  women  ? 
You,  who  have  floated  about  the  canals  of  Venice  ? 

I  was  an  American  boy;  and  my  very  utter 
10  *« 


218  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

strangeness  probably  made  it  easier  for  tae 
Marchesa  Negropontini  to  tell  me  the  story,  which  I 
now  relate.  She  told  it  to  me  as  we  sat  one  even- 
ing in  the  balcony  of  her  house,  the  palazzo  Orfeo, 
on  the  Grand  Canal. 


II. 


The  Marchesa  sat  for  a  long  time  silent,  and  we 
watched  the  phantom  life  of  the  city  around  us. 
Presently  she  sighed  deeply  and  said : 

"  Ah,  me !  it  is  the  eve  of  the  Purification.  My 
son,  seventy  years  ago  to-day  the  woman  was  born 
whose  connection  with  the  house  of  Negropontini 
has  shrouded  it  in  gloom,  like  the  portrait  you  have 
seen  in  the  saloon.  Seventy  years  ago  to-day  my 
father's  neighbor,  the  Count  Balbo,  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  face  of  the  first  daughter  his  wife  had  given 
him.  The  countess  lay  motionless — the  flame  of 
existence  flickered  between  life  and  death. 

"  '  Adorable  Mother  of  God  !'  said  the  count,  as 
he  knelt  by  her  bedside,  c  if  thou  restorest  my  wife, 
my  daughter  shall  be  consecrated  to  thy  service.' 

"The  slow  hours  dragged  heavily  by.  The 
mother  lived. 

"  My  brother  Camillo  and  I  were  but  two  and 
four  years  older  than  our  little  neighbor.  We  were 


A   STORY   OF  VENICE.  219 

children  together,  and  each  other's  playmates. 
When  the  little  neighbor,  Sulpizia  Balbo,  was  four- 
teen, Camillo  was  eighteen.  My  son,  the  sky  of 
Venice  never  shone  on  a  more  beautiful  girl,  on  a 
youth  more  grave  and  tender.  He  loved  her  with 
his  whole  soul.  Gran'  Dio !  'tis  the  old,  old  story ! 
"She  was  proud,  wayward,  passionate,  with  a 
splendor  of  wit  and  unusual  intelligence.  He  was 
calm,  sweet,  wise ;  with  a  depthless  tenderness  of ' 
passion.  But  Sulpizia  inherited  her  will  from  her 
father,  and  at  fourteen  she  was  sacrificed  to  the 
vow  he  had  made.  She  was  buried  alive  in  the 
convent  of  our  Lady  of  the  Isle,  and  my  brother's 
heart  with  her. 


III. 


"  Sulpizia's  powerful  nature  chafed  in  the  narrow 
bounds  of  the  convent  discipline.  But  her  religious 
education  assured  her  that  that  discipline  was  so 
much  the  more  necessary,  and  she  struggled  with 
the  sirens  of  worldly  desire.  The  other  sisters  were 
shocked  and  surprised,  at  one  moment  by  her  sur- 
passing fervor,  at  another  by  her  bold  and  startling 
protests  against  their  miserable  bondage. 

"  Often,  at  vespers,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the 
chapel,  she  flung  back  her  cape  and  hood,  with  the 


220  GIFfB    OF    GENIUS. 

tears  raining  from  her  eyes  and  her  voice  gushing 
and  throbbing  with  the  melancholy  music,  while 
the  nuns  paused  in  their  singing,  appalled  by  the 
religious  ecstasy  of  Sulpizia.  She  was  so  sweet  and 
gentle  in  her  daily  intercourse  that  all  of  them  loved 
her,  bending  to  her  caresses  like  grain  to  the  breeze ; 
but  they  trembled  in  the  power  of  her  denuncia- 
tion, which  shook  their  faith  to  the  centre,  for  it 
seemed  to  be  the  voice  of  a  faith  so  mu\ch  pro- 
founder. 

"  While  she  was  yet  young  she  was  elected  abbess 
of  the  convent.  It  was  a  day  of  triumph  for  her 
powerful  family.  Perhaps  the  Count  Balbo  may 
have  sometimes  regretted  that  solemn  vow,  but  he 
never  betrayed  repentance.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  been  more  secretly  satisfied  by  the  triumphant 
worldly  career  of  a  woman  like  his  daughter,  but 
he  never  said  so. 

"Sulpizia  knew  that  my  brother  loved  her.  I 
think  she  loved  him — at  least  I  thought  so. 

"  The  nuns  were  not  jealous  of  her  rule,  for  the 
superior  genius  which  commanded  them  also  con- 
soled and  counselled;  and  her  protests  becoming 
less  frequent,  her  persuasive  affection  won  all 
their  hearts.  They  saw  that  the  first  fire  of  youth 
slowly  saddened  in  her  eyes.  Her  mien  became 
even  more  lofty;  her  voice  less  salient;  and  a 


A  STOEY  OF  VENICE.  221 

shadow  fell  gently  over  her  life.  The  sisters 
thought  it  was  age;  but  Sulpizia  was  young. 
Others  thought  it  was  care ;  but  her  duties  could  not 
harass  such  a  spirit.  Others  thought  it  was  repent- 
ance ;  but  natures  like  hers  do  not  early  repent. 

"  It  was  resolved  that  the  portrait  of  the  abbess 
should  be  painted,  and  the  nuns  applied  to  her 
parents  to  select  the  artist.  They,  in  turn,  consulted 
my  brother  Camillo,  who  was  the  friend  of  the 
family,  and  for  whom  the  Count  Balbo  would,  I  be- 
lieve, have  willingly  unvowed  his  vow.  Camillo  had 
left  Yenice  as  the  great  doo»of  the  convent  closed 
behind  his  life  and  love.  He  fled  over  the  globe. 
He  lost  himself  in  new  scenes,  in  new  employ- 
ments. He  took  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and 
flew  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,*  and  there 
he  found — himself.  So  he  returned  an  older  and  a 
colder  man.  His  love,  which  had  been  a  passion, 
seemed  to  settle  into  a  principle.  His  life  was 
consecrated  to  one  remembrance.  It  did  not  dare 
to  have  a  hope. 

"  He  brought  with  him  a  friend  whom  he  had  met 
in  the  East.  Together  upon  the  summit  of  the 
great  pyramid  they  had  seen  the  day  break  over 
Cairo,  and  on  the  plain  of  Thebes  had  listened  for 

*  I  use,  here,  words  corresponding  to  the  Marchesa's. 


222  GIFTS    OF   GENIUS. 

Memnon  to  gush  with  music  as  the  sun  struck  him 
with  his  rod  of  light.  Together  they  had  travelled 
over  the  sea-like  desert,  breaking  the  awful  silence 
only  with  words  that  did  not  profane  it.  My 
brother  conversing  with  wise  sadness — his  friend 
Luigi  with  hope  and  enthusiasm. 

"  Luigi  was  a  poor  man,  and  an  artist.  My  brother 
was  proud,  but  real  grief  prunes  the  foolish  side  of 
pride,  while  it  fosters  the  nobler.  It  was  a  rare 
and  noble  friendship.  Bare,  because  pride  often 
interferes  with  friendships  among  men,  where  all 
conditions  are  not  eq*al.  Noble,  because  the  two 
men  were  so,  although  only  one  had  the  name  and 
the  means  of  a  nobleman.  But  he  shared  these 
with  his  friend,  as  naturally  as  his  friend  shared  his 
thoughts  with  him.  Neither  spoke  much  of  the 
past.  My  brother  had  rolled  a  stone  over  the 
mouth  of  that  tomb,  and  his  friend  was  occupied 
with  the  suggestions  and  the  richness  of  the  life 
around  him.  If  some  stray  leaf  or  blossom  fell 
forward  upon  their  path  from  the  past,  it  served  to 
Luigi  only  as  a  stimulating  mystery. 

"  '  This  is  my  memory,'  he  would  say,  touching 
his  portfolio,  which  was  full  of  eastern  sketches. 
'  These  are  the  hieroglyphics  Egypt  has  herself 
written,  and  we  can  decipher  them  at  leisure  upon 
your  languid  lagunes.' 


A   STOKT   OF   VENICE.  223 

"  It  was  not  difficult  for  my  brother  to  persuade 
Luigi  to  return  with  him  to  Venice.  I  shall  not 
forget  the  night  they  came,  as  long  as  I  remember 
anything." 

The  Marchesa  paused  a  moment,  dreamily. 

"  It  was  the  eve  of  the  Purification,"  she  said,  at 
length,  pausing  again.  After  a  little,  she  resumed : 

""We  were  ignorant  of  the  probable  time  of 
Camillo's  return ;  and  about  sunset  my  mother,  my 
younger  sister  Fiora,  and  I,  were  rowing  along  the 
Guidecca,  when  I  saw  a  gondola  approaching,  con- 
taining two  persons  only  beside  the  rowers,  followed 
by  another  with  trunks  and  servants.  I  have 
always  watched  curiously  new  arrivals  in  Venice, 
for  no  other  city  in  the  world  can  be  entered  with 
such  peculiar  emotion.  I  had  scarcely  looked  at 
the  new  comers  before  I  recognized  my  brother, 
and  was  fascinated  by  the  appearance  of  his  com- 
panion, who  lay  in  a  trance  of  delight  with  the 
beauty  of  the  place  and  the  hour. 

"  His  long  hair  flowed  from  under  his  slouched 
hat,  hanging  about  a  face  that  I  cannot  describe ; 
and  his  negligent  travelling  dress  did  not  conceal 
the  springing  grace  of  his  figure.  But  to  me, 
educated  in  Venice,  associated  only  with  its  silent, 
stately  nobles;  a  child,  early  solemnized  by  the 
society  of  decay  and  of  elders  whose  hearts  were 


224:  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

never  young,  to  me  the  magnetic  charm  of  the 
young  man  was  his  youth,  and  I  gazed  at  him 
with  the  same  admiring  earnestness  with  which  he 
looked  at  the  city  and  the  scene. 

"  The  gondolas  constantly  approached.  My  bro- 
ther lay  lost  in  thoughts  which  were  visible  in  the 
shadow  they  cast  upon  his  features.  His  head 
rested  upon  his  hand,  and  he  looked  fixedly  toward 
the  island  on  which  the  convent  stands.  A  light 
summer  cloak  was  drawn  around  him,  and  hid  Ins 
figure  entirely,  except  his  arm  and  hand.  His  cap 
was  drawn  down  over  his  eyes.  He  was  not  con- 
scious of  any  being  in  the  world  but  Sulpizia. 

"  Suddenly  from  the  convent  tower  the  sound  of 
the  vesper  bell  trembled  in  throbbing  music  over 
the  water.  It  seemed  to  ring  every  soul  to  prayer. 
My  brother  did  not  move.  He  still  gazed  intently 
at  the  island,  and  the  tears  stole  from  his  eyes. 
Luigi  crossed  himself.  We  did  the  same,  and  mur- 
mured an  Ave  Maria. 

"  '  Heavens !  Camillo !'  cried  my  mother,  sud- 
denly. He  started,  and  was  so  near  that  there  was 
a  mutual  recognition.  In  a  moment  the  gondolas 
were  side  by  side,  and  the  greetings  of  a  brother 
and  sisters  and  mother  long  parted,  followed. 
Meanwhile,  Camillo's  companion  remained  silent, 
having  respectfully  removed  his  hat,  and  looking  as 


A   STORY   OF   VENICE.  225 

if  lie  felt  his  presence  to  be  profane  at  such  a 
moment.  But  my  brother  turned,  and  taking  him 
by  the  hand,  said  : 

"  '  Dear  mother,  I  might  well  have  stayed  away 
from  you  twice  as  long,  could  I  have  hoped  to  find 
a  friend  like  this.' 

"  His  companion  smiled  at  the  generosity  of  his 
introduction.  He  greeted  us  all  cordially  and 
cheerfully,  and  the  light  fading  rapidly,  we  rowed 
on  in  the  early  starlight.  The  gondolas  slid  side  by 
side,  and  there  was  a  constant  hum  of  talk. 

"I  alone  was  silent.  I  felt  a  sympathy  with 
Camillo  which  I  had  never  known  before.  The 
tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  I  watched  him  gently 
conversing  with  my  mother,  turning  now  and  then 
in  some  conversation  with  Luigi  and  my  younger 
sister.  How  I  watched  Luigi !  How  I  caught  the 
words  that  were  not  addressed  to  me !  How  my 
heart  throbbed  at  his  sweet,  humorous  laugh,  in 
which  my  sister  joined,  while  his  eyes  wandered 
wonderingly  toward  mine,  as  if  to  ask  why  I  was  so 
silent.  1  tried  to  see  that  they  fastened  upon  me  with 
special  interest.  I  could  not  do  it.  Gracious  and 
gentle  to  all,  I  could  not  perceive  that  his  manner 
toward  me  was  different,  and  I  felt  a  new  sorrow. 

"  So  we  glided  over  the  Lagune  into  the  canal, 
and  beneath  the  balconied  palaces,  until  we  reached 

10* 


226  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

our  own.  The  gondolas  stopped.  Luigi  leaped  out 
instantly  upon  the  broad  marble  pavement,  and 
assisted  my  mother  to  alight,  then  my  sister.  Then 
I  placed  my  hand  in  his,  and  my  heart  stood  still. 
It  was  a  moment,  but  it  was  also  an  age.  The 
next  instant  I  stood  free  upon  the  step.  Free — but 
bound  forever. 

"  We  were  passing  up  the  staircase  into  the 
palace,  Luigi  plucked  an  orange  bud  and  handed  it 
to  me.  I  was  infinitely  happy ! 

"  A  few  steps  further,  and  he  broke  an  acacia  for 
my  sister :  ah !  I  was  miserable ! 

"We  ascended  into  the  great  saloon,  and  a  cheer- 
ful evening  followed.  Fascinated  by  these  first 
impressions  of  Yenice,  Luigi  abandoned  himself  to 
his  abundant  genius,  and  left  us  at  midnight, 
mutually  enchanted.  Youth  and  sympathy  had 
overcome  all  other  considerations.  We  had  planned 
endless  days  of  enjoyment.  He  had  promised  to 
show  us  his  sketches.  It  was  not  until  our  mother 
asked  of  my  brother  who  he  was,  that  all  the 
human  facts  appeared. 

"  '  Heavens !'  shouted  my  younger  sister,  Fiora, 
laughing  with  delight,  '  think  of  the  noble  Marchese 
Cicada,  who  simpers,  per  J3acco^  that  the  day  is 
warm,  and,  per  died,  that  I  am  lovelier  than  ever. 
Yiva  Luigi !  Yiva  O  il  pittore.' 


A   STORY   OF   VENICE.  227 

"  *  My  daughter,'  said  my  grave,  cautious  mother, 
<  you  are  very  young  yet — you  do  not  understand 
these  things.  Good  night,  my  child  !' 

"  Fiora  kissed  her  on  the  brow,  and  darted  out  of 
the  room  as  if  she  were  really  alive. 

u  When  she  had  gone,  Camillo  smiled  in  his  cold, 
calm  way,  and  turning  to  me,  asked  how  I  liked 
Luigi.  I  answered  calmly,  for  I  was  of  the  same 
blood  as  my  brother.  I  did  not  disguise  how  much 
superior  I  thought  him  to  the  youth  I  knew.  I 
was  very  glad  he  had  found  such  a  friend,  and 
hoped  the  young  man  would  come  often  to  see  us, 
and  be  very  successful  in  his  profession. 

"  Then  I  was  silent.  I  did  not  say  that  I  had 
never  lived  until  that  evening.  I  did  not  say  how 
iny  heart  was  chilled,  because,  in  leaving  the  room, 
Luigi's  last  glance  had  not  been  for  me,  but  for 
Fiora. 

"  Camillo  did  not  praise  him  much.  It  was  not 
his  way;  but  I  felt  how  deeply  he  honored  and 
loved  him,  and  was  rejoiced  to  think  that  necessity 
would  often  bring  us  together ;  only  my  mother 
seemed  serious,  and  I  knew  what  her  gravity  meant. 

" <  Do  not  be  alarmed,  dear  mother,'  I  said  to  her, 
as  I  was  leaving  the  room. 

" c  My  daughter,'  she  answered,  with  infinite 
pride,  'it  is  not  possible.  I  do  not  understand 


228  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

you.  And  you,  my  daughter,  you  do  not  under- 
stand yourself  nor  the  world." 

"  She  was  mistaken.  Myself  I  did  understand ; 
the  world  I  did  not." 

Again  the  Marchesa  was  silent  and  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes.  She  was  seventy  years  old.  Yes,  but  in 
love's  calendar  there  is  no  December. 

"  The  days  passed,  and  we  saw  Luigi  constantly. 
He  was  very  busy,  but  found  plenty  of  time  to  be 
with  us.  His  paintings  were  full  of  the  same  kind 
of  power  I  felt  in  his  character.  He  never  wearied 
of  the  gorgeous  atmospheric  effects  of  which 
Titian  and  Paul,  Giorgione  and  Tintoretto  were  the 
old  worshippers.  They  touched  him  sometimes 
with  a  voluptuous  melancholy  in  which  he  found 
a  deeper  inspiration. 

"  Every  day  I  loved  him  more  and  more,  and 
nobody  suspected  it.  He  did  not,  because  he  was 
only  glad  to  be  in  my  society  when  he  wanted 
criticism.  He  liked  me  as  an  intelligent  woman. 
He  loved  Fiora  as  a  bewitching  child. 

"  My  mother  watched  us  all,  and  soon  saw  there 
was  nothing  to  fear.  I  sought  to  be  lively — to 
frequent  society ;  for  I  knew  if  my  health  failed  I 
should  be  sent  away  from  Venice  and  Luigi.  He 
had  given  me  a  drawing — a  scene  composed  from 
our  first  meeting  upon  the  Lagune.  The  very  soul 


A   STORY   OF   VENICE. 

of  evening  repose  brooded  upon  the  picture.  It 
had  even  an  indefinable  tone  of  sadness,  as  if  lie 
had  incorporated  into  it  the  sound  of  the  vesper 
bell.  It  had  been  simply  a  melancholy  sound  to 
him.  To  the  rest  of  us,  who  loved  Camillo,  it  was 
something  more  than  that.  In  his  heart  the  mere 
remembrance  of  the  island  rang  melancholy  vespers 
forever. 

"  This  drawing  I  kept  in  a  private  drawer.  At 
night,  when  I  went  to  my  chamber,  I  opened  the 
drawer  and  looked  at  it.  It  lay  so  that  I  did  not 
need  to  touch  it ;  and  as  I  gazed  at  it,  I  saw  all  his 
own  character,  and  all  that  I  had  felt  and  lived 
since  that  evening. 

"  At  length  the  day  came,  on  which  the-  parents 
of  Sulpizia  came  to  my  brother  to  speak  of  her 
portrait.  Camillo  listened  to  them  quietly,  and 
mentioned  his  friend  Luigi  as  a  man  who  could 
understand  Sulpizia,  and  therefore  paint  her  por- 
trait. The  parents  were  satisfied.  It  was  an 
unusual  thing;  but  at  that  time,  as  at  all  times,  a 
great  many  unusual  things  could  be  done  in 
convents,  especially  if  one  had  a  brother,  who 
was  Cardinal  Balbo. 


230  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 


IY. 


"  It  was  a  bright  morning  that  Camillo  carried 
Luigi  in  his  gondola  to  the  convent.  He  had 
merely  said  to  him  that  there  was  a  beautiful 
abbess  to  paint,  an  old  friend  of  his;  and  Luigi 
replied  that  he  would  always  willingly  desert 
beautiful  waters  and  skies  for  beautiful  eyes.  They 
reached  the  island  " 

The  Marchesa  beat  the  floor  slowly  with  her  foot, 
and  controlled  herself,  as  if  a  spasm  of  mortal 
agony  had  seized  her. 

"They  reached  the  island,  and  stepped  ashore 
into  the  convent  garden.  They  went  into  the  little 
parlor,  and  presently  the  abbess  entered  veiled. 
My  brother,  who  had  not  seen  her  since  she  was  his 
playmate,  could  not  pierce. the  veil;  and  as  calmly 
as  ever  told  her  briefly  the  name  of  his  friend,  said 
a  few  generous  words  of  him,  and,  rising,  promised 
to  call  at  sunset  for  Luigi,  and  departed." 

The  Marchesa  now  spoke  very  rapidly. 

"  I  do  not  well  know — nobody  knows — but 
Sulpizia  raised  her  veil,  and  Luigi  adjusted  his 
easel.  He  painted — they  conversed — the  day  fled 
away.  Sunset  came.  Camillo  arrived  in  his 


A    STORY   OF   VENICE.  231 

gondola,  and  Luigi  came  out  without  smiling.  The 
gondoliers  pulled  toward  the  city. 

"  i  Is  she  beautiful '?'  asked  Camillo. 

"  '  Wonderful,'  responded  his  friend,  and  said  no 
more.  He  trailed  his  hands  in  the  water,  and  then 
wiped  them  across  his  brow.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  faced  the  evening  breeze  from  the  sea.  He 
cried  to  the  gondoliers  that  they  were  lazy — that 
the  gondola  did  not  move.  It  was  darting  like  a 
wind  over  the  water. 

"The  next  day  they  returned  to  the  island — and 
the  next.  But  at  sunset,  Luigi  did  not  come  to  the 
gondola.  Camillo  waited,  and  sat  until  it  was  quite 
dark.  Then  he  went  through  the  garden  of  the 
convent,  and  inquired  for  the  painter.  They  sought 
him  in  the  parlor.  He  was  not  there.  The  abbess 
was  not  there.  Upon  the  easel  stood  her  portrait 
partly  finished — strangely  beautiful.  Camillo  had 
followed  into  the  room,  and  stood  suddenly  before 
the  picture.  He  had  not  seen  Sulpizia  since  she 
was  a  child.  Even  his  fancy  had  scarcely  dreamed 
of  a  face  so  beautiful.  His  knees  trembled  as  he 
stood,  and  he  fell  before  it  in  the  attitude  of  prayer. 
The  last  red  flash  of  daylight  fell  upon  the  picture. 
The  eyes  smiled — the  lips  were  slightly  parted — 
a  glow  of  awakening  life  trembled  all  through  the 
features. 


232  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

"The  strong  man's  heart  was  melted,  and  the 
nuns  beheld  him  kneeling  and  weeping  before  the 
portrait  of  their  abbess. 

"But  where  was  she ? 

"  Nobody  knew.  There  was  no  clue — except  that 
the  gondola  of  the  convent  was  gone. 

"Camillo  took  the  portrait  and  stepped  into  his 
gondola.  He  returned  to  the  city,  to  the  palace  of 
Sulpizia's  parents.  Slowly  he  went  up  the  great 
staircase,  dark  and  silent,  up  which  his  eager  steps 
had  followed  the  flying  feet  of  Sulpizia.  He 
entered  the  saloon  slowly,  like  a  man  who  carries  a 
heavy  burden — but  rather  in  his  heart  than  in  his 
hands. 

" '  It  is  all  that  remains  to  you  of  your  daughter,' 
said  he  in  a  Tow  voice,  throwing  back  his  cloak, 
and  revealing  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  child's 
portrait  to  the  amazed  parents.  Then  came  the 
agony — a  child  lost — a  friend  false. 

"  Camillo  returned  to  us  and  told  the  tale.  I  felt 
my  heart  wither  and  grow  old.  My  mother  was 
grieved  in  her  heart  for-  her  son's  sorrow — in  her 
pride  for  its  kind  and  method.  Fiora  did  not  smile 
any  more.  Her  step  was  no  longer  bounding  upon 
the  floor  and  the  stairs,  and  the  year  afterward  she 
married  the  Marchese  Cicada. 

"  The  next  day,  Camillo  returned  to  the  island. 


A  STORY  OF  VENICE.  233 

The  abbess  had  not  returned,  nor  had  any  tidings 
been  received.  Only  the  gondola  had  been  found 
in  the  morning  in  its  usual  place.  The  days  passed. 
A  new  abbess  was  chosen.  The  church  did  not 
dare  to  curse  the  fugitive,  for  there  was  no  proof 
that  she  had  willingly  gone  away.  It  might  be 
supposed — it  could  not  be  proved.  Camillo  hung 
in  his  chamber  the  unfinished  portrait,  and  a  black 
veil  shrouded  it  from  chance  and  curious  eyes.  He 
did  not  seem  altered.  He  was  still  calm  and 
grave — still  cold  and  sweet  in  his  general  inter- 
course. 

"  My  friendship  with  him  became  more  intimate. 
He  saw  that  I  was  much  changed — for  although 
pride  can  do  much,  the  heart  is  stronger  than  the 
head.  But  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 
People  who  suffer  intensely  often  forget  that  there 
are  other  sufferers  in  the  world,  you  know. 
Camillo  was  very  tender  toward  me,  for  he  thought 
that  I  was  paying  the  penalty  of  too  warm  a 
sympathy  with  him,  and  often  begged  me  not  to 
wear  away  my  health  and  youth  in  commiseration 
for  what  was  past  and  hopeless.  I  cultivated  my 
consciousness  of  his  suffering  as  a  defence  against 
my  own.  "We  never  mentioned  the  names  of  either 
of  those  of  whom  we  were  always  thinking;  but 
once  in  many  months  he  would  call  me  into  his 


234  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

chamber  and  remove  the  veil  from  the  portrait, 
while  we  stood  before  it  as  silent  as  devotees  in  a 
church  before  the  picture  of  the  Madonna.  Camillo 
pursued  his  affairs — the  cares  of  his  estate — the 
duties  of  society.  He  assembled  all  the  strangers 
of  distinction  at  his  table.  Yes,  it  was  a  rare  and 
great  triumph. 

"  For  myself,  I  was  mistress  of  my  secret,  and  I 
reveal  it  to  you  for  the  first  time.  Why  not  ?  I 
am  seventy  years  old.  You  know  none  of  the 
persons — you  hear  it  as  you  would  read  a  romance. 
My  heart  was  broken — my  faith  was  lost — and  I 
have  never  met  since  any  one  who  could  restore  it. 
I  distrust  the  sweetest  smile  if  it  move  me  deeply, 
and  although  men  may  sometimes  be  sincere,  yet 
sorrow  is  so  sure  that  we  must  steer  by  memory, 
not  by  hope.  In  this  world  we  must  not  play  that 
we  are  happy.  That  play  has  a  frightful  forfeit. 
Society  is  wise.  It  eats  its  own  children,  whose 
consolation  is  that  after  this  world  there  is  another 
— and  a  better,  say  the  priests.  Of  course — for  it 
could  not  be  a  worse. 

V. 

"Suddenly  Sulpizia  returned.  My  brother  was 
in  his  library  when  a  messenger  came  for  him  from 
her  parents.  He  ran  breathless  and  pale  to  his 


A   STORY   OF   VENICE.  235 

gondola.  The  man  was  conquered  in  that  moment 
and  the  wild  passion  of  the  boy  flamed  up  again. 
When  he  reached  the  Balbo  palace  he  paused  a 
moment,  despite  himself,  upon  the  stairs,  and  the 
calmness  of  the  man  returned  to  him.  Nature  is 
kind  in  that  to  her  noble  childz'en.  Their  regrets, 
their  despairs,  their  lightning  flashes  of  hope,  she 
does  not  reveal  to  those  who  cause  them.  Every 
man  is  weak,  but  the  weakness  of  the  strong  man 
is  hidden.  He  entered  the  saloon.  There  stood 
Sulpizia  with  her  parents. 

"Death  and  victory  were  in  her  eyes.  They 
were  fearfully  hollow;  and  the  strongly-carved 
features,  from  which  the  flesh  had  fallen  during  the 
long  struggles  of  the  soul,  were  pure  and  pale  as 
marble.  It  seemed  as  if  she  must  fall  from  weak- 
ness, but  not  a  muscle  moved. 

"Nothing  was  said.  Camillo  stood  before  the 
woman  who  had  always  ruled  his  soul,  to  whom  it 
was  still  loyal.  The  parents  stood  appalled  behind 
their  daughter.  It  was  a  wintry  noon  in  Yenice — 
cold  and  still. 

"  c  Camillo,'  said  Sulpizia  at  length,  in  a.  tone  not 
to  be  described,  but  seemingly  destitute  of  emotion 
— as  the  ocean  might  seem  when  a  gale  calmed  it 
— '  he  has  left  me.3 

"  Child,  I  have  not  fathomed  the  human  heart ; 


236  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

but  after  a  long,  long  silence  my  brother  answered 
only,  I  know  not  from  what  feeling  of  duty  and  of 
sacrifice : 

"  '  Sulpizia,  will  you  marry  me  ?' 

"  Cardinal  Balbo  arranged  the  matter  at  Eome, 
and  after  a  short  time  they  were  married.  I  was 
the  only  one  present  with  the  parents  of  Sulpizia, 
who  were  glad  enough  so  to  cover  what  they  called 
their  daughter's  shame.  My  mother  would  not 
come,  "but  left  Venice  that  very  day  and  died 
abroad.  The  circumstances  of  the  marriage  were 
not  comprehended ;  but  the  old  friends  of  the  family 
came  occasionally  to  make  solemn,  stately  visits, 
which  my  brother  scrupulously  returned. 

"You  may  believe  that  we  enjoyed  a  kind  of 
mournful  peace  after  the  dark  days  of  the  last  few 
years.  I  loved  Sulpizia,  but  her  cheerfulness  with- 
out smiling  was  the  awful  serenity  of  wintry  sun- 
light. She  faded  day  by  day.  It  was  clear  to  us 
that  the  end  was  not  far  away. 

"Two  years  after  the  marriage,  Sulpizia  was  lying 
upon  a  couch  in  th*e  room  behind  us,  where  you 
have  seen  the  veiled  portrait  which  hung  in  my 
brother's  chamber.  All  the  long  windows  and 
doors  were  open  and  we  sat  by  her  side,  talking 
gently  in  whispers.  I  knew  that  death  was  at  hand, 


A   STORY   OF   VENICE.  237 

but  I  rejoiced  to  think  that  much  as  he  had  suffered, 
there  was  one  bitter  drop  that  had  been  spared 
him. 

"Sulpizia's  voice  was  scarcely  audible,  and  the 
deadly  pallor  deepened  every  moment  upon  her 
face.  Camillo  bent  over  her  without  speaking,  and 
bowed  his  head.  I  stood  apart.  In  a  little  while 
she  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  our  presence.  Her 
eyes  were  open  and  her  glance  was  toward  the 
window,  but  her  few  words  showed  her  mind  to  be 
wandering.  Still  a  few  moments,  and  her  lips 
moved  inaudibly,  she  lifted  her  hands  to  Camillo's 
face  and  drew  it  toward  her  own  with  infinite 
tenderness.  His  listening  soul  heard  one  word 
only — the  glimmering  phantom  of  sound — it  was 
*  Luigi.' 

"His  head  bowed  more  profoundly.  Sulpizia's 
eyes  were  closed.  I  crossed  her  hands  upon  her 
breast.  I  touched  my  brother — he  started  a 
moment— looked  at  me,  at  his  wife,  and  sunk  slowly, 
senseless  by  the  couch." 

VI. 

Think  of  it !  The  birds  sing — the  sun  shines — 
the  leaves  rustle — the  flowers  bud  and  bloom — 
children  shout — young  hearts  are  happy — the  world 


238  GIFTS   OF   GENIirS. 

wheels  on — and   such   tragedies   are,   and   always 
have  been ! 

I  sat  with  the  old  Marchcsa  upon  her  balcony, 
and  listened  to  this  terrible  tale.  She  tells  it  no 
more,  for  she  is  gone  now.  The  Marchesa  tells  it 
no  more,  but  Venice  tells  it  still ;  and  as  you  glide 
in  your  black  gondola  along  the  canal,  under  the 
balconies,  in  the  full  moonlight  of  summer  nights, 
listen  and  listen ;  and  vaguely  in  your  heart  or  in 
your  fancy  you  will  hear  the  tragic  strain. 


THE  TOKTUKE  CHAMBER. 

BY   WILLIAM   ALLEN   BUTLEE. 

DOWN  the  broad,  imperial  Danube, 
As  its  wandering  waters  guide, 

Past  the  mountains  and  the  meadows, 
Winding  with  the  stream,  we  glide. 

RATISBON  we  leave  behind  us, 

Where  the  spires  and  gables  throng, 

And  the  huge  cathedral  rises, 
Like  a  fortress,  vast  and  strong. 

Close  beside  it,  stands  the  Town-Hall, 
With  its  massive  tower,  alone, 

Brooding  o'er  the  dismal  secret, 
Hidden  in  its  heart  of  stone. 

There,  beneath  the  old  foundations, 

Lay  the  prisons  of  the  State, 
Like  the  last  abodes  of  vengeance, 

In  the  fabled  realms  of  Fate. 

239 


240  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

And  the  tides  of  life  above  them, 
Drifted  ever,  near  and  wide, 

As  at  Yenice,  round  the  prisons, 
Sweeps  the  sea's  incessant  tide. 

Never,  like  the  far-off  dashing, 
Or  the  nearer  rush  of  waves, 

Came  the  tread  or  murmur  downward, 
To  those  dim,  unechoing  caves. 

There  the  dungeon  clasped  its  victim, 
And  a  stupor  chained  his  breath, 

Till  the  torture  woke  his  senses, 
With  a  sharper  touch  than  death. 

Now,  through  all  the  vacant  silence, 
Reign  the  darkness  and  the  damp, 

Broken  only  when  the  traveller 

Comes  to  gaze,  with  guide  and  lamp. 

All  about  him,  black  and  shattered, 
Eaten  with  the  rust  of  Time, 

Lie  the  fearful  signs  and  tokens 
Of  an  age  when  Law  was  Crime. 

And  the  guide,  with  grim  precision, 
Tells  the  dismal  tale  once  more, 

Tells  to  living  men  the  tortures 
Living  men  have  borne  before. 


THE   TORTURE-CHAMBER. 

Well  that  speechless  things,  unconscious, 
Furnish  forth  that  place  of  dread, 

Guiltless  of  the  crimes  they  witnessed, 
Guiltless  of  the  blood  they  shed ; 

Else  what  direful  lamentations, 

And  what  revelations  dire, 
Ceaseless  from  their  lips  would  echo, 

Tossed  in  memory's  penal  fire. 

Even  as  we  gaze,  the  fancy 

With  a  sudden  life-gush  warms,  * 

And,  once  more,  the  Torture  Chamber, 
With  its  murderous  tenants  swarms. 

Yonder,  through  the  narrow  archway, 
Comes  the  culprit  in  the  gloom, 

Falters  on  the  fatal  threshold — 
Totters  to  the  bloody  doom. 

Here  the  executioner,  lurking, 
Waits,  with  brutal  thirst,  his  hour, 

Tool  of  bloodier  men  and  bolder, 
Drunken  with  the  dregs  of  power. 

There  the  careful  leech  sits  patient, 
Watching  pulse,  and  hue,  and  breath, 

Weighing  life's  remaining  scruples 
With  the  heavier  chance  of  death. 
11 


24:2  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

Eking  out  the  little  remnant, 
Lest  the  victim  die  too  soon, 

And  the  torture  of  the  morning 
Spare  the  torture  of  the  noon. 

Here,  behind  the  heavy  grating, 
Sits  the  scribe,  with  pen  and  scroll, 

Waiting  till  the  giant  terror 
Bursts  the  secrets  of  the  soul ; 

Till  the  fearful  tale  of  treason 
^From  the  shrinking  lips  is  wrung, 

Or  the  final,  false  confession 

Quivers  from  the  trembling  tongue : 

"When  the  spirit,  torn  and  tempted, 
Tried  beyond  its  utmost  scope, 

By  an  anguish  past  endurance, 
Madly  cancels  all  its  hope ; 

From  the  pointed  cliffs  of  torture, 
With  its  shrieks  upon  the  air, 

Suicidal,  plunging  blindly, 
In  the  frenzy  of  despair ! 


But  the  grey  old  tower  is  fading, 
Fades,  in  sunshine,  from  the  eye, 


THE  TORTURE-CHAMBER.  24:3 

Like  some  evil  bird  whose  pinion 
Dimly  blots  the  distant  sky. 

So  the  ancient  gloom  and  terror 

Of  the  ages  fade  away, 
In  the  sunlight  of  the  present, 

Of  our  better,  purer  day ! 


THE  HOME  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BKONTE. 

A  PASSAGE  FROM  A  DIARY. 

BY  W.   FRANCIS  WILLIAMS. 

'*  Such  shrines  as  these  are  pilgrim  shrines — 

Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined ; 
The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind." 

H ALLEGE. 

THE  date  is  September  5,  1857.  I  am  at  Ha- 
worth,  wliitlier  I  had  walked  from  the  Bradford 
Station,  some  ten  or  twelve  miles  distant.  This 
Haworth — a  place  but  a  few  years  since  quite  un- 
known to  any  but  the  few  residing  in  its  immediate 
vicinity — is  built  upon  the  side  of  a  hill,  and,  with 
its  long  line  of  grey  houses  creeping  up  the  slope, 
seems  like  a  huge  saurian  monster,  sprawling  along 
the  hill-side,  his  head  near  the  top  and  his  tail 
reaching  nearly  to  the  vale  below.  At  the  summit, 
in  the  very  head  of  our  saurian,  stands  Haworth 
Parsonage,  and  the  church  near  by,  with  the  square 
old  tower  rising  above  the  houses  that  cluster  about 
it.  I  well  remember  my  first  view  of  this  place. 
It  was  an  autumn  afternoon,  and  near  sunset.  The 

244 


THE  HOME  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE.       245 

sky  had  been  cloudy,  but  as  I  stopped  to  take  iny 
first  long  look  at  the  little  village,  so  hallowed  by 
the  memory  of  the  Bronte  sisters,  the  declining  sun 
sent  through  a  breach  in  the  clouds  a  few  spears  of 
dazzling  light,  that  played  about  the  old  church 
and  parsonage  with  an  ineffable  glory.  It  lasted 
but  a  few  moments,  the  sun  went  down,  and  dark- 
ness and  night  gradually  settled  over  the  scene. 
The  little  incident  seemed  almost  like  a  type  of  the 
life  of  the  gifted  woman  chiefly  to  whom  Ha^worth 
owes  its  fame ;  for  her  life,  like  this  very  day,  had 
been  dark  and  wearisome,  overshadowed  by  clouds 
of  cares,  tears  falling  like  rain-drops  upon  new- 
made  graves,  until  near  its  close,  when  there  came 
a  sweet  season  of  bright  domestic  happiness,  that 
lasted  too  shortly,  and  then  gave  place  to  the  dark- 
ness and  night  of  death. 

Strolling  through  the  village,  after  my  quiet  meal 
at  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  which  poor  Branwell  Bronte 
had  so  often  frequented,  I  stopped  to  make  some 
trifling  purchases  at  a  stationery  store,  and  casually 
asked  the  proprietor — a  small,  delicate-looking  man, 
with  a  bright  eye  and  a  highly  intellectual  counte- 
nance— if  he  remembered  the  Bronte  sisters.  It 
was  a  fortunate  question,  for  he  knew  them  well, 
and  was  a  personal  friend  of  the  authoress  of  Jane 
Eyre,  to  whose  handsomely-framed  portrait  he 


246  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

proudly  pointed.  He  had  provided  her,  as  he  said, 
with  joyful  delight,  with  the  paper  on  which  she 
wrote  the  manuscripts  of  most  of  her  novels ;  he  is 
referred  to  in  one  of  Miss  Bronte's  letters  to  Mrs. 
Gaskell,  as  her  "one  friend  in  Haworth,"  and  is 
the  "working-man"  mentioned  in  her  memoirs, 
who  wrote  a  little  critique  on  Jane  Eyre,  that  came 
to  the  notice  of  the  authoress  and  afforded  her  great 
pleasure.  To  talk  of  the  Bronte  girls — to  express 
his  admiration  of  them  to  one  who  had  come  from 
America  to  visit  their  home  and  grave,  was  to  him 
a  great  gratification.  He  told  me  how  he  used  to 
meet  them  on  the  moors — how  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  stroll  all  three  together,  and  talk  and 
gather  flowers ;  then  how  Emily  died,  and  Anne 
and  Charlotte  were  left  to  pace  the  familiar  path 
arm-in-arm ;  then  how  they  took  Anne  away  to  the 
sea-side,  whence  she  never  returned,  while  Charlotte 
would  take  her  lonely  moorland  walk,  rapt  in  sad 
contemplation.  Sometimes  he  would  meet  her  on 
these  occasions,  and  if  he  passed  by  without  at- 
tracting her  attention,  she  would  chide  him  when 
told  of  it  afterward.  She  was  always  so  kind,  so 
good-hearted,  and  with  those  she  knew,  so  really 
sociable. 

Sunday  >  with  my  new  friend,  I  attended  the 
church.    The  storm  of  the  day  before  had  cleared 


THE  HOME  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.       24:7 

away,  and  even  the  place  of  graves  looked  bright 
and  cheerful.  The  churchyard  was  crowded  with 
country  people  from  miles  around,  who  sat  care- 
lessly on  the  long,  flat  stones  that  so  thickly  covered 
the  ground,  waiting  for  the  opening  services,  while 
the  parish  bell  kept  up  a  merry  peal.  Everything 
seemed  simple  and  happy,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
that  the  Brontes  loved  their  home,  with  its  little 
garden  of  lilac  bushes,  the  old  church  in  front,  and 
the  sweeping  moors  stretching  far  behind.  On 
many  a  Sunday  morning  like  this  they  had  trodden 
the  very  path  I  then  was  treading,  and  had  entered 
the  church-door ;  but  how  few  of  these  simple  vil- 
lagers knew  the  treasures  of  genius  showered  on 
these  quiet,  reserved  sisters ! 

The  church  inside  is  old,  and  quaint,  and  simple ; 
it  can  neither  be  called  elegant,  comfortable,  spa- 
cious nor  antique.  Old  Mr.  Bronte  was  to  preach, 
and  the  Eev.  Mr.  Nicholls  read  the  service.  As  a 
compliment  to  a  stranger,  I  had  been  invited  by  the 
organist  of  the  church  to  play  the  organ — a  neat  lit- 
tle instrument  of  some  eight  or  ten  stops;  and  it  was 
while  "  giving  out "  the  familiar  tune  of  Antioch 
that  I  noticed,  in  the  reflection  of  a  little  mirror 
placed  above  the  keyboard,  that  Mr.  Bronte  had 
entered  the  church,  and  was  passing  up  the  aisle. 
He  wore  the  customary  black  gown,  and  the  lower 


24:8  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

part  of  his  face  was  quite  buried  in  an  enormous 
white  neckcloth — the  most  monstrous  article  of  the 
kind  I  had  ever  beheld.  The  reflection  in  that 
little  mirror  I  shall  never  forget.  The  old  man, 
walking  feebly  up  the  aisle,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  right  hand,  and  supporting  himself  with  a  cane, 
the  quiet  congregation,  and  the  singular  dress  and 
venerable  bald  head  of  the  old  preacher,  all  formed 
a  character-picture,  that  is  not  often  seen.  His  ser- 
mon was  extempore,  and  consisted  of  a  series  of 
running  paraphrases  and  simple  and  touching  ex- 
planations upon  a  few  verses  selected  from  the 

Lamentations  of  Jeremiah. 

•*  *  *  #  •*  * 

After  church,  my  friend  the  stationer  walked  with 
me  on  the  moors.  Charlotte  Bronte's  experience  of 
the  world  was  so  very  limited,  that  in  drawing  the 
characters  in  her  novels,  she  had  to  select  the  real, 
living  people  in  the  vicinity.  Thus,  my  friend 
pointed  out  one  house  and  another  to  me  as  being 
the  residence  of  many  of  the  originals  of  many  of 
the  characters  in  her  works,  especially  in  "  Shirley." 
Soon,  however,  our  path  across  the  moors  took  us 
out  of  human  habitations,  and  among  the  moorland 
solitudes  the  Bronte  sisters  so  fondly  loved.  Cold 
and  desolate  as  they  appear  from  a  distance,  a  nearer 
examination  proves  them  to  be  replete  with  exqui- 


THE  HOME  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE.      24:9 

site  beauty.  Delicate  heather  blooms  carpet  the 
immense  slope,  and  bend,  like  nodding  plumes, 
in  graceful  waves,  to  the  breezes  that  play  heed- 
lessly down  the  hill-side.  Gay  yellow  buttercups, 
bright  purple  heath-flowers,  and  dark  bilberries 
vary  the  general  violet  tint,  while  the  tiny  stems 
of  these  gentle  plants  spring  from  rich  tufts  of 
emerald  moss,  and  are  pushed  aside  by  the  spray- 
like  leaves  of  the  wild  fern.  The  hum  of  bees  im- 
parts a  half  busy  half  drowsy  sound  to  the  scene, 
while  far  down  the  long  easy  slopes  are  little  val- 
leys, through  which  trickle  talkative  brooks,  that 
sometimes  peep  between  the  low  foliage  on  their 
margins,  and  are  the  next  moment  lost  to  sight 
behind  the  crowding  bushes.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
Charlotte  and  her  sisters  loved  their  quiet  walks 
along  the  moors. 

The  next  day  I  bade  farewell  to  Haworth.  It  is 
now  frequently  included  in  the  route  of  American 
tourists,  by  many  of  whom  the  memory  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte  is  as  fondly  cherished  as  by  her  own 
countrymen  and  women ;  and  Haworth  is  no  longer 
the  quiet,  unknown  Yorkshire  hamlet  that  it  was  a 
few  years  ago. 


THOEWALDSEN'S  CHEIST. 

BY  THE  REV.  E.  A.  WASHBUBN. 

SILENT  stood  the  youthful  sculptor 
Gazing  on  the  breathing  stone 
From  the  chaos  of  the  marble 
Into  godlike  being  grown. 
But  a  gloom  was  on  his  forehead, 
.  In  his  eye  a  drooping  glance, 
And  at  length  the  heavy  sorrow 
From  the  lip  found  utterance : 

"  Holy  Art !  thy  shapes  of  beauty 
Have  I  carved,  but  ne'er  before 
Reached  my  thought  a  faultless  imago. 
Still  unbodied  would  it  soar ; 
Still  the  pure  unfound  Ideal 
Would  ensoul  a  fairer  shrine  ; 
In  my  victory  I  perish, 
And  no  loftier  aim  is  mine." 

CDO    ' 


THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST.  251 

Noble  artist !  thine  the  yearning, 
Thine  the  great  inspiring  word, 
By  the  sleepless  mind  forever 
In  its  silent  watches  heard ; 
For  the  earthly  it  is  pleasure 
Only  earthly  ends  to  gain ; 
For  the  seeker  of  the  perfect, 
To  be  satisfied  is  pain. 

Visions  of  an  untold  glory 
Milton  saw  in  his  eclipse, 
Paradise  to  outward  gazers 
Lost,  with  no  apocalypse ; 
Holier  Christs  and  veiled  Madonnas, 
Painted  were  on  Kaphael's  soul ; 
Melodies  he  could  not  utter 
O'er  Bethoven's  ear  would  roll. 


Ever  floats  the  dim  Ideal 
Far  before  the  longing  eyes  ; 
Ever,  as  we  travel  onward, 
Boundless  the  horizon  flies ; 
Not  the  brimming  cups  of  wisdom 
Can  the  thirsty  spirit  slake, 
And  the  molten  gold  in  pouring 
Will  the  mould  in  pieces  break. 


252  GIFTS   OF   GENIUS. 

Voice  within  our  inmost  being, 
Calling  deep  to  answering  deep, 
Midst  the  life  of  weary  labor 
Thou  shalt  waken  us  from  sleep  ! 
.    All  our  joy  is  in  our  Future 
And  our  motion  is  our  rest, 
Still  the  True  reveals  the  Truer, 
Still  the  good  foretells  the  Best. 


JUNE  WENTY-&INTH,  EIGHTEEN  FIFTY- 
NINE. 

BY   CAROLINE   M.    KIRKLAND. 

To  talk  about  the  weather  is  the  natural  English 
and  American  mode  of  beginning  an  acquaintance. 

This  day — the  one  that  glares  upon  us  at  our 
present  writing — is  eminently  able  to  melt  away 
what  is  called  the  frost  of  ceremony,  and  to  induce 
the  primmest  of  us  to  throw  off  all  disguises  that 
can  possibly  be  dispensed  with.  It  is  a  day  to 
bring  the  most  sophisticated  back  to  first  principles. 
The  very  thought  of  wrapping  anything  up  in 
mystery,  to-day,  brings  a  thrill  like  the  involuntary 
protest  of  the  soul  against  cruelty.  We  are  not 
even  as  anxious  as  usual  to  cover  up  our  faults. 
We  hesitate  at  enveloping  a  letter. 

The  shimmer  that  lives  and  moves  over  yonder 
dry  fallow,  as  if  ten  thousand  million  fairies  were 
fanning  themselves  with  midges'  wings,  fatigues  the 
eye  with  a  notion  of  unnecessary  exertion.  Wiser 
seems  yon  glassy  pool,  moveless,  under  heavy,  not 


254:  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

melancholy,  boughs.  That  is  reflecting — keeping 
one  pleasant  thought  all  the  time — satisfying  itself 
with  one  picture  for  a  whole  morning,  as  we  all 
did  while  the  "Heart  of  the  Andes"  was  laid 
open  .to  our  longing  gaze.  The  pool  has  the 
advantage  of  us,  too ;  for  it  receives  into  its  wave- 
less  bosom  the  loveliness  of  sky  and  tree  without 
emotion,  while  we,  gazing  on  the  wondrous  tran- 
script made  by  mortal  man  of  these  measureless 
glories,  felt  our  souls  stirred,  even  to  pain,  with  a 
sense  of  the  artist's  power,  and  of  the  amount  of 
his  precious  life  that  must  have  gone  into  such  a 
creation. 

By  the  way,  if  we  had  energy  enough  to-day  to 
wish  anything,  it  would  be  to  find  ourselves  far 
away  amid  flashing  seas  and  wild  winds,  hunting 
icebergs,  with  Church  for  our  Columbus,  his  banner 
of  Excelsior  streaming  over  us,  his  wondrous  eye 
piercing  the  distant  wreaths  of  spray,  in  search  of 
domes  and  pinnacles  of  opal  and  lapis  lazuli, 
turned,  now  to  diamonds,  now  to  marble,  by  sun 
and  shade.  One  whose  good  fortune  it  was  to  be 
with  the  young  discoverer  at  Niagara,  came  away 
with  the  feeling  of  having  acquired  a  new  sense,  by 
the  potent  magic  of  genius. 

But  to-day,  Art  is  nothing — genius  is  nothing — 
but  no !  that  is  blasphemous.  It  is  we  that  are 


JUNE   TWENTY-NINTH,   EIGHTEEN   FIFTY-NINE.     255 

nothing — if  not  stupid.  Dullness  is  the  universe. 
The  grasshoppers  are  too  faint  to  sing,  the  birds  sit 
still  on  the  boughs,  waiting  for  the  leaves  to  fan 
them.  Children  are  wilted  into  silence  and  slum- 
berous nonentity ;  boys  do  not  bathe  to-day — they 
welter,  hour  after  hour,  in  the  dark  water  near  the 
shaded  rock.  Even  they  and  the  tadpoles  can 
hardly  be  seen  to  wriggle.  The  cow  has  found  a 
shade,  and,  preferring  repose  to  munching,  lies 
contented  under  the  one  great  elm  mercifully  left 
in  the  middle  of  her  pasture 

A  hot  day  in  June  is  hotter  than  any  other  hot 
day.  It  finds  us  cruelly  unguarded.  After  we 
have  been  gently  baked  awhile,  the  crust  thus 
acquired  makes  us  somewhat  tortoise-like  and 
quiescent.  If  we  were  condemned  to  suffer  thirty- 
nine  stripes,  or  even  only  as  many  as  belong  to  our 
flag,  would  it  or  would  it  not  be  a  privilege  to  take 
them  by  degrees,  say  one  on  the  first  day,  two  on 
the  second,  four  on  the  third,  etc.,  in  the  celebrated 
progression  style,  until  the  whole  were  accom- 
plished? Or  were  it  better  to  have  the  whole  at. 
once,  and  so  be  done  with  it  ?  In  either  case,  or  in 
present  case,  what  a  blessing  to  be  made  pachy- 
dermatous !  (a  learned  word  lately  acquired  by 
ladies,  though  doubtless  long  familiar  to  lords). 

But  words  beginning  with  the  sound  of  ice,  are 


256  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

more  agreeable  for  to-day — such  as  icicle,  isolation, 
Islip. 

Some  unhappy  critic  has  said  that  the  "  icicle 
that  hangs  on  Dian's  temple "  is  not  colder  than 
other  icicles.  We  pity  him,  and  would  like  to  try 
the  comparison  to-day.  We  have  already  tried 
"  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus,"  and  quite  agree 
with  Claudio — was  it,  or  Romeo,  or  who? — that 
this  is  of  no  service  in  case  of  fire. 

Delicious  music  for  to-day — the  tinkling  of  ice  in 
the  pitcher,  as  Susan,  slowly  and  carefully,  brings 
up-stairs  the  water  we  wait  for.  It  were  really  a 
loss  to  have  the  way  shorter,  or  the  servant  a 
harum-scarum  thing  who  would  dash  in  with 
her  precious  burden  before  one  knew  it  was 
coming 

We  might  try,  to-day,  the  latest  novelty  in 
cookery,  a  ball  of  solid  ice  wrapped  in  puff-paste, 
and  baked  so  adroitly  that  the  paste  shall  be  brown 
while  the  ice  remains  unmelted. 

Akin  to  this,  is  an  antique  achievement  culinary, 
as  old  as  Mrs.  Glasse,  at  least — the  roasting  of  a 
pound  of  butter,  an  operation  not  unlike  the  very 
work  we  are  engaged  in  at  this  moment — indeed  so 
like  it,  that  the  remembrance  has  occurred  several 
times.  Your  pound  of  butter  is  to  be  thoroughly 
crusted  in  bread-crumbs  to  begin  with,  and  then 


JUNE   TWENTY-NINTH,   EIGHTEEN  FIFTY-NINE.     257 

put  upon  the  spit  and  turned  before  a  very  hot  fire ; 
the  unhappy  cook  standing  by  to  dredge  on  crumbs 
continually,  to  prevent  the  slippery  article  from 
running  away.  When  the  crumbs  (and  cook)  are 
quite  roasted,  the  thing  is  done. 

And  so  should  we  be,  but  that  here  comes  a 
thunder  storm,  fit  conclusion  for  an  intense  day, 
and  very  like  the  sudden  and  terrific  blowings  up 
which  terminate  the  more  ferocious  kind  of  friend- 
ships. Thick  clouds,  shaped  like  piles  of  cannon 
balls,  have  slowly  peered  up  from  behind  the 
horizon,  and  rolled  themselves  hither  and  thither, 
spreading  and  gathering  as  they  went.  Now  and 
then  a  thunder-whisper  is  heard,  so  faint,  that  if 
we  were  conversing,  we  should  not  notice  it ;  and 
an  occasional  flash  of  lightning  seems,  in  the  sun's 
glare,  like  the  waving  of  a  curtain  by  the  fitful 
breeze  that  begins  to  touch  the  pool  here  and  there. 
The  cloud  masses  gather  fresh  and  fresh  accession 
as  they  move  on,  like  revolutionary  armies  march- 
ing up  to  battle.  Looking  overhead,  there  seems  a 
field-day  in  heaven;  great  bodies  of  artillery  in 
motion,  forming  themselves  into  solid  phalanx,  and 
giving  more  and  more  dreadful  notes  of  prepara- 
tion. Volleys  tell  when  divisions  join,  and  the  light 
that  announces  them  is  as  if  the  adamantine  arch 
were  riven,  disclosing  dread  splendors  unspeakable. 


258  GIFTS   OF  GENIUS. 

Most  grand,  most  beautiful  storm  !  New  music — 
that  of  the  delicious  rain,  and  in  such  abundance 
that  it  washes  away  the  very  memory  of  the 
parched  and  burning  day.  No  wild  commotion, 
no  terror !  Sublime  order  and  an  awe  which  is  like 
peace.  One  more  proof  of  the  unfailing,  tender 
love  of  our  heavenly  Father. 


NO  SONGS  IN  WINTER 

BY  T.   B.   ALDEICH. 
I. 

THE  robin  and  the  oriole, 

The  linnet  and  the  wren — 
When  shall  I  see  their  fairyships, 

And  hear  their  songs  again  ? 

n. 

The  wind  among  the  poplar  trees, 

At  midnight,  makes  its  moan  ; 
The  slim  red  cardinal  flowers  are  dead, 

And  all  sweet  things  are  flown ! 

m. 

A  great  white  face  looks  down  from  heaven, 

The  great  white  face  of  Snow  : 
I  cannot  sing  or  morn  or  even, 

The  demon  haunts  me  so  ! 

TV. 
It  strikes  me  dumb,  it  freezes  me, 

I  sing  a  broken  strain — 
Wait  till  the  robins  and  the  wrens 

And  the  linnets  come  again  ! 


THE  BE1ST-ISKAEL. 

BY   OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

CRAMMED — lobbies,  galleries,  boxes,  floor ; 
Heads  piled  on  heads  at  every  door. 
The  actors  were  a  painted  group, 
Of  statue  shapes,  a  "  model "  troupe, 
With  figures  not  severely  Greek, 
And  drapery  more  or  less  antique  ; 
The  play,  if  one  might  call  it  so, 
A  Hebrew  tale,  in  silent  show. 

And  with  the  throng  the  pageant  drew 
There  mingled  Hebrews,  not  a  few, 
Coarse,  swarthy,  bearded — at  their  side 
Dark,  jewelled  women,  orient-eyed. 
If  scarce  a  Christian  hope  for  grace, 
That  crowds  one  in  his  narrow  place, 
What  will  the  savage  victim  do, 
Whose  ribs  are  kneaded  by  a  JEW  ? 


THE  BENI-ISEAEL.  261 

Close  on  my  left,  a  breathing  form 
Sat  wedged  against  me,  soft  and  warm ; 
The  vulture-beaked  and  dark-browed  face 
Betrays  the  mould  of  Abraham's  race ; 
That  coal-black  hair — that  bistred  hue — 
Ah,  cursed,  unbelieving  Jew ! 
I  started,  shuddering,  to  the  right, 
And  squeezed — a  second  Israelite ! 

Then  rose  the  nameless  words  that  slip 
From  darkening  soul  to  whitening  lip. 
The  snaky  usurer — him  that  crawls, 
And  cheats  beneath  the  golden  balls, 
The  hook-nosed  kite  of  carrion  clothes — 
I  stabbed  them  deep  with  muttered  oaths : 
Spawn  of  the  rebel,  wandering  horde 
That  stoned  the  saints,  and  slew  their  Lord ! 

Up  came  their  murderous  deeds  of  old — 
The  grisly  story  Chaucer  told, 
And  many  an  ugly  tale  beside, 
Of  children  caught  and  crucified. 
I  heard  the  ducat-sweating  thieves 
Beneath  the  Ghetto's  slouching  eaves, 
And,  thrust  beyond  the  tented  green, 
The  leper's  cry,  "Unclean,  unclean  !" 


262  GIFTS  OF  GENIUS. 

The  show  went  on,  but,  ill  at  ease, 

My  sullen  eye  it  could  not  please ; 

In  vain  the  haggard  outcast  knelt, 

The  white-haired  patriarch's  heart  to  melt ; 

I  thought  of  Judas  and  his  bribe, 

And  steeled  my  soul  against  his  tribe. 

My  neighbors  stirred ;  I  looked  again, 

Full  on  the  younger  of  the  twain. 

A  soft,  young  cheek  of  olive  brown, 
A  lip  just  flushed  with  youthful  down, 
Locks  dark  as  midnight,  that  divide 
And  shade  the  neck  on  either  side ; 
An  eye  that  wears  a  moistened  gleam, 
Like  starlight  in  a  hidden  stream ; 
So  looked  that  other  child  of  Shem, 
The  maiden's  Boy  of  Bethlehem ! 

And  thou  couldst  scorn  the  peerless  blood 
That  flows  untainted  from  the  Flood ! 
Thy  scutcheon  spotted  with  the  stains 
Of  Norman  thieves  and  pirate  Danes ! 
Scum  of  the  nations !    In  thy  pride 
Scowl  on  the  Hebrew  at  thy  side, 
And,  lo  !  the  very  semblance  there 
The  Lord  of  Glory  deigned  to  wear ! 


THE   BENI-ISKAEL.  263 

I  see  that  radiant  image  rise, — 
The  midnight  hair,  the  starlit  eyes ; 
The  faintly-crimsoned  cheek  that  shows 
The  stain  of  Judah's  dusky  rose. 
Thy  hands  would  clasp  His  hallowed  feet 
Whose  brethren  soil  thy  Christian  seat ; 
Thy  lips  would  press  His  garment's  hem, 
That  curl  in  scornful  wrath  for  them ! 


A  sudden  mist,  a  watery  screen, 
Dropped  like  a  veil  before  the  scene ; 
I  strove  the  glistening  film  to  stay, 
The  wilful  tear  would  have  its  way. 
The  shadow  floated  from  my  soul, 
And  to  my  lips  a  whisper  stole, 
Soft  murmuring,  as  the  curtain  fell, 
"  Peace  to  the  Beni-Israel  1" 


BOCAGE'S  PENITENTIAL  SONNET. 

From  the  Portuguese  of  Manoel  de  Barbosa  do  Bocage. 

BY  WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 
k 

PVE  seen  my  life,  without  a  noble  aim, 

In  the  mad  strife  of  passions  waste  away. 
Fool  that  I  was !  to  live  as  if  decay 

Would  spare  the  vital  essence  in  my  frame ! 
Ind  Hope,  whose  flattering  dreams  are  now  my 

shame, 

Showed  years  to  come,  a  long  and  bright  array, 
Yet  all  too  soon  my  nature  sinks  a  prey 

To  the  great  evil  that  with  being  came. 
Pleasures,  my  tyrants !  now  your  reign  is  past : 

My  soul,  recoiling,  casts  you  off  to  lie 
In  that  abyss  where  all  deceits  are  cast. 

Oh  God  !  may  life's  laot  moments,  as  they  fly, 
Win  back  what  years  have  lost,  that  he,  at  last, 
Who  knew  not  how  to  live,  may  learn  to  die. 


204 


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